


Rules of Architecture

by WithTheKeyIsKing



Series: Sladick Fics [12]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, BAMF Dick Grayson, Brainwashing, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Conditioning, Date Rape Drug/Roofies, Dick Has PTSD, Dissociation, Evil Slade Wilson, Extremely Dubious Consent, Good Brother Jason Todd, Good Brother Tim Drake, Good Parent Alfred Pennyworth, Hurt Dick Grayson, M/M, Manipulative Talia al Ghul, Mind Control, Mind Manipulation, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Overstimulation, Past Suicide Attempt, Praise Kink, Protective Damian Wayne, Slade Wilson is a Dick, Torture, due to the brainwashing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2020-05-13 16:11:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 31,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19254637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WithTheKeyIsKing/pseuds/WithTheKeyIsKing
Summary: It's been ten years since Martian Manhunter freed him from Slade's influence, and Dick's come a long way. (Or maybe he's simply far better at hiding the scars Deathstroke left behind.)Now working as Nightwing and with a large family at his back, Dick hasn't had to think about the mercenary in a long time. Unfortunately for Dick, the past is never content to stay buried, and it appears that Slade Wilson still has a few tricks up his sleeve...Sequel toAn Active Imagination





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [LadyArtemis13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyArtemis13/pseuds/LadyArtemis13) for the idea for this story!
> 
> (Also, just so you guys know, I'm basically ignoring all of seasons 2 and 3 of YJ)

"Just for the record," Jason said, panting, "I'm winning."

"Is now the time?" Tim grit back. In the background, you could hear the faint sounds of fighting. "I mean, we're kind of in the middle of something."

A loud shout and crash over the comm, and then Damian said, "We're  _tied_ now, Hood!"

"See, the kid gets it!" Jason laughed. "You're just a sore loser."

Tim sighed in exasperation, and the bickering continued.

Dick knew he should probably interrupt them, bring them back to the task at hand, but there was something very comforting about their familiar chatter. His three little brothers had often been _actually_ at each other's throats, so the fact that it was now good-natured rather than murderous was something Dick would always be grateful for, and always smile when he heard it.

Besides, he didn't  _need_ to bring them back to the task at handhe trusted them all well enough to know they were completing their parts of the mission.

"If you boys are done," Stephanie drawled, "I'm in position."

"So really," Dick interjected, grinning to himself, "I think  _Spoiler_ might be winning." Next to him, Cassandra smirked, shaking her head.

A groan from Jason and a  _"Tt"_ from Damian, both of which made Dick's smile larger.

"Oh please," Tim said, his eyeroll practically hearable in his voice, "as if you aren't already where you're supposed to be, Nightwing. Don't give us that shit; brag like everyone else."

Dick didn't like bragging. Bragging could bring on praise which brought on...well, brought on things he'd rather not think about, so. He preferred to do his job and move on.

But still, this was his family and they meant him no ill-will  _(you're okay),_ so he drawled, "I do my best," in a superior tone, and then leveled his voice and said, "Good work, Spoiler. Batgirl and I are, in fact, in position, so any time the rest of you wanna do your part..."

"Oh, shove it, Goldie," Jason muttered. "I'm setting the charges right in the right wing now for our wonderfully explosive distractionjust hold your fucking horses."

"Done, Nightwing," Damian said firmly. "The charges in the left quadrant are set. Back into the fray, yes?"

"Yeah, Robin," Dick said, an easy smile on his lips, "go ahead and keep kicking their assesyou'll have more heading your way soon, anyway."

The smiling thing on missions was nice. There was a long period of his life that he found happiness hard, let alone being happy on _missions._ He did the job and he did it well, but the laughing and joke cracking thing he'd been known for  _before?_ That had all been gone.

Slowly but surely things had come back to him, and every once in a while it struck him how he was smiling at his siblings right now. He was _enjoying_ himself right now, and everything was going well.

_(He knew that later, he'd have nightmares. The easy days always brought the hardest nights, and so he just tried to enjoy the time while he could.)_

Dick cleared his throat. "Red Hood, are you clear?"

A moment's pause, and then Jason said, "Yup, I'm clear. Blow it, RR."

"Wing?" Tim prompted.

"Blow it," Dick confirmed.

He didn't need the comm unit in his ear to hear the explosion, and he and Cassandra hunkered down more firmly as the force of it rocked the building.

Instantly, all the men on the floor beneath them started shouting and running about, those with guns heading for the exits to find the attackers and put out the fires. The scientists shifted nervously, looking towards the doors, and then got barked at to keep working.

"Lots of incoming your way," Dick murmured. "Party's coming to you."

When there were only a few guards left, he nodded at Cassandra and they both dropped to the ground. The few men remaining whirled around to face them, guns raising, but Dick and Cass were far faster than them, and they went down quickly.

"Batgirl and I are in," Dick said as they headed towards the giant machine at the center of the room, the scientists parting fearfully for them. "How are you looking, Spoiler?"

"Dandy fine," she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. "The people up here are a little antsy; I'm gonna move a little closer, see if I can get eyes on these guys."

Dick nodded, even though Stephanie couldn't see him. "Sounds good, S; keep to the shadows, though."

"Nightwing," Cassandra called, nodding towards a small control panel.

He smiled at her. "Awesome." She smiled back, eyes crinkling.

Ducking down, Dick pulled out a small flash drive and plugged it into the control panel, watching the virus they'd created pop up on the large screen. In the corner of his eye he could see the scientists rushing for the exits, but they didn't matter; none of them were actually evil, just some poor assholes who got sucked into some supervillain's plan or another.

"Program's doing its thing," he said in satisfaction.

"They're calling in backup!" Jason shouted back. "So hurry the hell up _we_ need backup. Spoiler, who's giving orders up there?"

A sigh from Stephanie, and then she quietly said, "Exactly who we thought it would beLex Luther, doing his typical shit."

Dick pursed his lips. "Hate that guy," he muttered. "Any other household names up there?"

There was a brief pause, during which Dick focused on the files popping up on the gigantic computer screen in front of him. After about a minute, Stephanie said, "Four men and one woman I don't recognize, and there's one other guy I can't quite get a look at...Wait! It's Sportsmaster."

Dick withheld a sigh; greatanother person he detested.

"Done," Dick said, pulling the flash drive from the panel when it finished doing what it was supposed to. "I'm heading to you, Red Hood. Batgirl, join Robin. Spoiler, plant the bug and get to the extraction point. Red Robin, head to the roof to back her up."

There were a chorus of agreements, and everyone got to work.

It wasn't even a minute later that they all heard Stephanie cry out.

"Spoiler!" Tim shouted. No reply. _"S!_ I'm on my way!"

"Shit," Dick cursed. "Hood, Robin, how bad is it where you guys are?"

"There's barely any left back here," Damian said, sounding disappointed. "Hood, I believe, has the brunt force out front."

"Got it. Change of planBatgirl, head to Red Hood's position; I'm going to go after Spoiler with Red Robin."

Dick made his way up and up. At the third level he met up with Tim, the younger boy's expression set in determination, and then to the last floor, where Stephanie had been to plant the bug.

The men and woman who'd been there before were gone, but Stephanie was on the floor, limp. Tim immediately rushed to her, hand going to her neck to feel for a pulse, and then slumped in relief.

"She's okay," he said, voice shaking a little, "just unconscious. Blow to the head, looks like."

Just then, the sound of a helicopter started up on the roof, making both Dick and Tim's head jerk up.

"Stay with Spoiler," Dick said, heading for the small staircase that led up, "I'll stop this."

He knocked the top hatch open and jumped up onto the roof. He immediately had to dive to the side to avoid the hail of gunfire that rained down on him. He could see the helicopter at the other end of the roof; Lex Luthor, Sportsmaster, and a woman Dick didn't know were ducked and heading towards the chopper, protecting by the seven men all aiming guns at Dick.

Dick smirked;  _child's play._

He darted forward, getting to work. Everything was instinct, natural, as easy as breathing. There had been a while when fighting was spoiled for him, made into something evil, something where he couldn't trust his own mind. Not anymore, and  _never again._

When all the goons were down, Dick threw one of his wingdings, making it land right in front of where Luthor was about to step. The man reared back and then whirled around, Sportsmaster and the woman following suit.

"Nightwing," Luthor greeted smoothly. "How good to see you again."

Dick heard someone come up through the hatch behind him and recognized Tim's tread, his little brother walking forward to stand at his side.

"Stand down," Dick ordered, looking at Sportsmaster and the woman, both of whom seemed ready for a fight.

"I don't think so,  _little bird,"_ Sportsmaster sneered.

Fury sparked inside of Dick and he bared his teeth, his fists clenching.

It was Lawrence Crock's favorite thing to do whenever they fought, call him that fucking term. He'd been there, ten years ago, when that phrase had actually had meaning. Luthor referenced it every once in a while, having been there, too. They both knew it didn't actually carry any _weight_ anymore, but they liked using it to just get under his skin.

It worked. More than Dick liked to admit. And it made him severely  _pissed._

_(He didn't acknowledge the shudder that ran up his spine, the tightness of his chest. None of it mattered. He was fine.)_

"Last warning," Dick said, his voice notably colder than it was a minute ago.

Luthor smirked. "No, I don't think so. I've seen what you can do firsthand, Nightwing, and I don't intend to wait around here for you to get out your repressed trauma by beating us up." He looked at the woman and nodded. "Detonate."

Dick dove at Tim, pushing his brother to the ground and covering him just as the explosion hit. The heat was searing and concrete blocks went flying, but it was mostly in the center of the roof, separating the two heroes from the escaping villains.

With a grimace, Dick got to his feet. He offered Tim a hand and the younger boy took it, grunting as he stood. The pair of them watched the helicopter flying away, Sportsmaster saluting them sarcastically from where he was hanging out of it.

"Shit," Tim cursed. Dick nodded his agreement, glaring after them.

"Stephanie?" he asked.

"She's okay," Tim said, smiling wryly. "She woke up and yelled at me to go after you. Said I was an idiot."

"She's a smart girl," Dick said with a smirk, but it felt mechanical. Hollow. Encounters like this always left him...distant. Folding in on himself. Mind and body quiet.

And he'd been having such a good day, too.

"You okay?" his little brother asked, brow furrowed.

"Of course," Dick replied automatically, and then headed back for the hatch. He felt so tired all of a sudden, and hated that in that helicopter they were probably patting each other on the back and joking about the poor little hero, the one whose  _trauma_ they witnessed firsthand.

They made their way back to ground level and then outside, Stephanie joining them. Unconscious goons littered the grounds, Jason, Damian, and Cassandra all wandering through them, every once in a while throwing a punch to knock someone out who was still with them.

"What happened?" Jason asked when he spotted them.

"We saw the explosion," Cassandra added, nodding.

Dick didn't answer, looking around them for any possible remaining hostiles. In the face of his silence, Tim was the one to reply.

"...Luthor blew the roof so that he and Sportsmaster and that woman could get away. Blew up some of their own men, actually. They got away. But you said you were successful, right, Nightwing? Batgirl?"

"Right," Dick agreed. He wondered if he sounded as hollow to them as he did to himself. "All on the flashdrive."

"Let's get the fuck out of here, then," Jason said with a snort, brushing his hands off on his pants. "I could use a drink."

Normally, this would be the part where Dick dryly commented,  _You're nineteen, Hood, but better luck next time._ He didn't say it, though. He couldn't feel it.

Faintly, he acknowledged that he should give Wally and Artemis or Conner and M'gann a phone call. Kaldur'ahm was in New York at the moment with Aquaman, doing something or anotherhe should see if Kaldur would make a detour, come say hello.

He knew, far more clearly, that he wouldn't do that. He hadn't let any of them help him ten years ago, and there wasn't a chance he'd ask for help now.

There was nothing to help. He was fine. He just needed a good night's sleep.

* * *

Throughout their debrief, Dick could feel Bruce's eyes on him.

The bat was subtle about it, of course, listening to Damian, Stephanie, and Jason give all the highlights. Tim interjected some corrections and then explained what happened on the roof. The only time Dick had to speak was to say that the program had worked.

"Did you see anyone else on the helicopter?" Bruce asked, cowl still pulled up as he sat at the batcomputer. He'd had his own mission tonight, and left this one to his kids. This wasn't Dick's first time leading a team, and it wouldn't be his lastBruce never doubted he could do it.

Silently, Dick shook his head. He saw Tim and Jason share a glance, and Bruce pursed his lips. Bruce always hated when he got non-verbal, because he always knew what triggered it. He knew all of Dick's tells, having spent ten years learning them.

The last few years had been...easier, the last two especially. The family around him really helped. Sometimes they really didn't understand him, which was the pointhe didn't want them to know why he did certain things. He didn't want them to understand why he was the way he was.

He was the Golden Boy, the first Robin, the shining Nightwing, Damian's Batman; none of them had ever learned what happened ten years ago, and if Dick had anything to say about it, they never would.

"Good work everyone," Bruce said, and pulled down his cowl. "You're free to go." Everyone pushed to their feet, chatter starting up, but Dick didn't move; he knew Bruce was going to ask him to stay behind, anywaystanding would be pointless.

"Grayson, come get a bite to eat," Damian called, his voice determined.

"Leave 'im be, squirt," Jason said with a snort, "he and Bruce are gonna have one of their super special secret conversations."

"Good _night,_ Jason," Bruce said, shaking his head. Normally, there would be fond exasperation in his voice, but right now he was too focused on Dick.

When the others' footsteps faded away, Bruce firmly asked, "What happened?"

"They told you," Dick got out.

"You know what I mean," Bruce returned. Neither of them said anything for a moment. Bruce sighed. "Luthor and Sportsmaster were theredid one of them say something?"

Dick hesitated, and then nodded, but didn't say anything.

 _"Dick._ Words, please." He paused briefly, then said, "I know you're...I know what this is, but I need you to speak to me for just a bit longer."

"The usual stuff," Dick mumbled.  _Fuck,_ he hated them. Those fuckers barely had to say anything at all and Dick was reduced to that first year, barely speaking, practically mute.

"Crock or Luthor?"

Dick knew what he meant _Which one said_ it _to you?_

"Sportsmaster," Dick said. "But Luthor...contributed."

"Tell me a number."

Dick scowled and raised his eyes from where they'd been focused on the table. Bruce met his irritated gaze easily, expression perfectly calm. There was a tightness to his jaw, though, that Dick perfectly understood; he was picturing someone's death in his mind, a murder that he'd never follow through on, but certainly enjoyed imagining.

"C'mon, B-"

"A  _number,_ Dick," Bruce interrupted.

About a year after everything went down, Bruce came up with his goddamn _numbers system._ Dick hated it, but Bruce had latched onto the idea immediately. Dick supposed it was understandable; he'd refused to talk about everything since the very beginning, and this had been Bruce's one way to get a feel for what Dick was feeling.

To Dick, it was the stupidest fucking thing. It made him feel like he was in the doctor's office with one of those charts on the wall smiling back at him;  _Please rate how bad your emotional trauma is today!_

"Five," Dick muttered, lowering his gaze again. "Or four. Six. I don't know, B, I just want to go to bed."

"No," Bruce immediately said, once more drawing Dick's irritation. "You're going to let Alfred check over your injuries, you're going to eat an actual meal, you're going to watch an hour of TV with Damian, you're going to take a shower, and  _then_ you can go to bed."

This was Bruce's way of taking care of him. Bruce knew that if Dick went up to his room right now, he'd spend the next two hours staring at shadows on the wall, his mind making them into demons, and then when he eventually fell asleep, he'd be plagued by nightmares. Now, while nightmares would still be likely even after Bruce's planned activities, doing those things would help to drag Dick out of his mind a bit before going to isolate in his room.

This wasn't even close to the first time Bruce had taken this tactic, and it probably wouldn't be the last. Dick had to admit that it helped.

He sighed and nodded. "Yes, Sir," he murmured. He didn't notice how Bruce's hands tightened on the armrests of his chair at the term. "Am I dismissed?"

"Yes," Bruce said on a quiet breath. "Yes, you're...dismissed."

Dick got to his feet. "Thank you, Sir. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Dick," Bruce said quietly. "I'll see you tomorrow."

* * *

_"Grayson, please!" Damian cried out, coughing up some blood. "Stop this!"_

_Dick stared down at him dispassionately, his blade poised right over the young hero's heart. A few feet away, Tim and Jason were limp, dead, blood pooling around them._

_"We're your family," Damian croaked, trying again. His eyes were wide and afraid, something that was rarely seen on the boy's face. "Dick, I thought we were family."_

_"Not anymore," a deep rasp purred, approaching the pair of them. "Now, he's_ my _family."_

_Slade's arms wrapped around Dick's body and he began kissing and licking his way down Dick's neck. Dick leaned into the touch. Damian's eyes sparked with betrayal._

_"Little bird," Slade murmured, "finish him."_

_Dick drove down the blade,_ and woke up screaming.

He muffled the sound quickly, having enough experience to know to muffle himself, lest he wake up the other inhabitants of the house. His hands were shaking and he stared at them, examining them intently, searching for the blood that he knew was on them.

Damian's blood. His little brother. His Robin.

This wasn't the first time he'd had that particular dream, him killing his brothers. The ones that ended with Damian looking so scaredscared of _him_ were always the worst. Damian got afraid more than he admitted to, but that was...different. Never so openly, and never because of  _Dick._

Feeling restless, Dick got out of bed and headed for the door. He didn't even realize he had a destination in mind until he ended up outside Damian's bedroom, the door slightly cracked.

He hesitated for a moment more and then slipped inside. Damian was in the center of his large bed, spread out like a starfish, lips parted in sleep. He twitched minutely but settled, not waking at Dick's presence like he used to when he was new to them all. He was comfortable, he called them his siblings.

Dick loved him. He loved them all. So goddamn much. And the thought that he could kill them, that he could put a blade to Jason or Tim or Damian and actually  _mean it_ it was horrifying. It made him want to vomit. It made him want to call up J'onn and tell him that he'd changed his mind, that he wanted the memoires gone.

It wasn't the first time he'd wanted that. It was the coward's way out  _(just like those scars on his arms)_ , but that didn't stop him from wanting. Once, about five months after everything went down, he'd woken up from nightmares so horrible that he'd wanted to scrub his mind with bleach. He'd asked J'onn to take them memories away. Practically begged, actually.

_"Please, II can't do this anymore. I...I just want him gone."_

_"He is gone, Robin,"_ J'onn had replied, calm and understanding.  _"His influence has been removed."_

_"No, younot like that. I mean the memories. I still...please, just take them away. I don't want to live with this anymore."_

It was the most Dick had said in one sitting in months. He was exhausted, and he meant every word. He didn't want to live with the horrors in his mind.

J'onn had been sympathetic, with sad eyes and sorrow making his lips purse, but instead of agreeing he'd said,  _"I am going to help you sleep dreamlessly tonight, Robin. And if in a few days you still feel this way, then we can discuss it with Batman."_

It had been a dismissal. A gentle one, but a dismissal nonetheless.

And then a week later Dick tried to kill himself.

Alfred had been the one to find him. It was pure happenstance that the man got there in time at all; Bruce had been at work, and Alfred was supposed to be running errands. Dick was supposed to be alone in the Manor. But Alfred's car shorted out a quarter of the way to the store and so he came back, calling out for Dick's assistance. When Dick didn't answer, Alfred went searching.

He found the young teen in the bathroom tub, bleeding pretty heavily. Alfred had experience with serious wounds and worked quickly, ignoring Dick's faint protests. He didn't actually remember it, really; he'd lost too much blood at that point, and it was all a blur.

Something he did remember, clear as a bell, was when Alfred had managed to stem the bleeding and stitch up his arms, Dick grabbed his hand and said,  _"Please don't tell Bruce. Please. He'll think I'm weak. He'll make me stop being Robin. I can't lose that, too."_

Alfred had shushed him, telling him to rest, and then Dick had fallen unconscious.

He didn't know how much later it had been when he woke up again, but it was pitch black outside instead of the bright early-afternoon sun. He'd slipped from bed, making his way silently down the staircases, and heard voices coming from Bruce's study. Curious and ignoring the faint pounding in his forearms, Dick had walked closer, making sure to keep his footsteps silent.

_"...n said something was off in Dick's mind, but he couldn't give me specifics. I should've asked him to actually delve in, take a look. Maybe then we could've stopped this."_

Bruce had sounded so tired, so  _heartbroken,_ and it made shame bubble in Dick's chest. His wounds throbbed in response.

 _"Oh, Master Bruce,"_ Alfred had sighed back.  _"You cannot blame yourself for this."_

 _"I should've pressed him harder to talk,"_ Bruce had muttered, as if he didn't even hear what Alfred said.  _"He hasn't said a word to anybody about what happened. That can't be...he needs actual help, right?"_

 _"He wouldn't accept it,"_ Alfred had gently replied.  _"Which you know. Same reason you've never accepted help. Master Richard has been through the absolute unthinkable, but he will get through this."_

 _"He just tried to kill himself!"_ Bruce's voice had risen, tight and upset, before hushing again.  _"That's not getting through this."_ Then a sigh. _"Maybe he should take a break from Robin. I should bench him, give him some time-"_

Dick hadn't even had time to feel the fear that would come with that statement before Alfred had sternly said,  _"You will do no such thing."_

_"Alfred-"_

_"Do you know what he said to me once I'd stitched up his wounds, Master Bruce?"_ Alfred had still sounded so firm, almost angry.  _"He begged me not to tell you what happened."_

Bruce had sucked in a sharp breath, and he'd sounded like he'd been punched in the gut when he asked,  _"Why?"_

 _"He said you'd think he was weak. He said you'd make him stop being Robin, andto use his wordshe couldn't 'lose that too'. The way I see it, fighting as part of that team and being at Batman's side gives him a sense of purpose that will help him heal. You_ will not _take Robin away from him, Master Bruce. I won't allow it."_

And that had been that.

Damian turned over in his sleep, drawing in a brief snore that made Dick smile. He wanted to walk forward, stroke his brother's hair back, maybe even lie down beside him. With Tim and Jason, he could do that; they'd stir but stay asleep, and in the morning Jason would tease and Tim would roll his eyes but they'd still both be happy to have him there.

But Damian was far more sensitive, and if Dick touched him, the boy would wake up. He didn't want that, because the boy would surely see something was wrong and then press until he had answers. Dick didn't want that; he just wanted to cuddle with his brother.

So, he went to Jason's room.

The younger boy shifted as Dick laid down next to him, a furrow appearing between his brows before settling again, and Dick relaxed beside him.

When he woke up the next morning, Jason was snoring loudly and had thrown an arm across Dick during the night, faintly gripping at Dick's t-shirt. It made Dick smile and he settled back in, falling back asleep.

The next time he woke up, Jason was flicking him in the face.

* * *

A month passed, then another. Things went back to normal. Incidents like the one with Sportsmaster were few and far in between, and Dick pushed it from his mind just like he always did. Nightmares came and went, as they always did, and Dick even got himself to reach out to Wally.

That weekend, Nightwing, Flash, and Artemis teamed up, and it left Dick feeling lighter than he had in a while.

Every other Monday, Dick went to an AA meeting.

Now, he wasn't actually an alcoholic. In fact, he tried to stay as far away from booze and drugs as he could, figuring that with his history it would probably be  _very_ easy for him to abuse.

No, Dick went to these meetings because he liked hearing people who'd been through hell talk about how far they'd come, or how far they still had to go, or how goddamn hard they were trying. He sat in the back and never spoke, but he liked being there. It was his way of helping himself. He'd been going to AA meetings for five years.

Jason went with him sometimes. The first time it happened, his little brother had simply followed him, and given Dick a serious heart attack when he suddenly appeared. Jason had raised an incredulous, teasing eyebrow, but in the face of Dick's clear discomfort, he hadn't actually said anything.

Dick didn't really know whether or not Jason thought he was  _actually_ an alcoholic, but the younger boy never asked or pressed, just showed up sometimes and sat down next to Dick.

Cassandra accompanied him once, too. There were also a few occasions where Tim was already there, waiting for Dick in the back, donuts and coffee ready.

His siblings always had his back, even when they had no idea what they were supporting. And thankfully, they let him go alone plenty of times, too, because usually that's what he needed, and they always seemed to know.

This time, Dick was alone. There were about twenty people there, and three quarters of them Dick recognized. Currently up at the podium was a woman named Stella who was celebrating ten years sober. Dick barely knew her, but he felt unbelievably proud, and he clapped and cheered with everyone else.

A few people after Stella, a man stepped up. Dick didn't know him, but people came in and out of these groups so that wasn't too unusual. He was in maybe his late twenties with tanned skin, deep brown eyes, and a scar across his chin. He introduced himself in the usual way as Andrew, an alcoholic.

"So I'm here today because tomorrow is the fifth anniversary of me getting invalided back from Afghanistan," Andrew said with a sigh. "This week is hard for me every year, and so I try to attend as many meetings as I can. Drinking seems so goddamn easy..."

He spoke a bit longer, and Dick felt his heart going out to him, just like he always did for all these people. He could practically see the weight Andrew carried on his shoulders, the same look in his eyes that Dick saw in the mirror on his bad days. So maybe it was that sense of familiarity that made Dick approach the elder man after the meeting.

"Hi," Dick said with a hesitant smile, "I'm Dick." He offered his hand.

Andrew offered him a smile in return, shaking his hand. "Hi. Andrew. Though you probably knew that." He laughed a little awkwardly, his eyes flitting away from Dick, an endearing blush dusting his cheeks. "It's nice to meet you."

The way he said it was embarrassed but heartfelt, and the grin he sent Dick's way was gorgeous, and now Dick was feeling a little panicked because he'd actually initiated this conversation but he suddenly felt hopelessly out of his depth and he just wanted to go home, maybe never come to this group again

Dick opened his mouth to excuse himself, his body already curving slightly away, when Andrew suddenly said, "Hey, would you want to get a bite with me, maybe? Across the street there's a great little café. Really good coffee. You look like you could use an ear, and I sure as hell could."

Dick hesitated for a moment; he'd never met this man before, and it was really not like him to just go out to dinner with strangers. He had far too much experience with things going horribly wrong to put his trust in newbies. He wanted to say no.

But, on the other hand, he never did anything like this! He never met a nice guy or girl and just went out with them. He could see himself in Andrew, too. Not just in the fact that they'd both probably seen enough danger to last a lifetime; there was a solidness in his shoulders and in his eyes that Dick usually only saw in people in his line of work, and only in the ones like Bruce.

The ones like  _Dick._

So maybe, just this once, Dick could push past all the shit in his mind and just go on a date, or whatever this was.

"Y'know," Dick said, smiling wryly, "it's like ten at nightnot exactly prime coffee time."

Andrew laughed and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. "Yeah, maybe. Want to get some anyway?"

"I...yeah. Yeah, I do."

They went across the street to the café Andrew had mentioned. It was a cute little place and mostly empty considering the time of day, and they sat down at a small table by the window.

And then they just...talked.

It was nice. They didn't even discuss anything heavy or important. Andrew told him about the stupid shit his siblings had done when they were kids, and Dick then returned stories about his own brothers. Dick talked about his favorite books, and Andrew introduced him to a few cool movies he should check out. It was  _nice._

For one of the rare times in his life, Dick was doing something purely  _normal._ And it was actually going well.

Which meant everything had to go so,  _so_ wrong.

They'd been there for maybe an hour when Dick started to feel odd. Drowsy, confused, his body tingling. He stared down at the table, blinking heavily, trying to clear his head. He tried to count his symptoms and identify a cause as Bruce taught him, but everything was moving so...slowly. He couldn't think. And he was steadily losing the ability to move.

He felt someone pull him to his feet and he stumbled along beside them, his feet sliding uncoordinated and uncooperative. He sucked in the cold bursts of air that hit him as they stepped outside, but just as soon he was in a car. The person with him held him against him, Dick's few jerky attempts to pull away easily controlled, and before he knew it, they were leaving again.

Then stairs, and an elevator, and a bed, and his clothes were being removed. He stared up at the ceiling, unable to get his body to move, unable to pull away as his limbs were moved and manipulated.

"Just relax," someone said. A face swam into his vision but he couldn't recognize it, couldn't identify anything. "I'm not going to touch you; my job was just to get you here."

Footsteps away from him, and then nothing for a long while. Dick floated in the nothingness, hating his body for not doing what he wanted it to, hating his mind for being so foggy, hating

"Hello, little bird."

The voice was like ice water down Dick's spine and in his current state he couldn't stop the small whimper that crawled its way out of his throat. A hand cupped the side of his neck and he tried to inch away from it, that kind of touch having far too many connotations.

"It's good to see you again."

He wanted to pull away, to run, but he couldn't move. He had to just lie there as the nightmare that had haunted him for years crawled on top of him, large hands running intimately over the entirety of his body.

"Don't worry," the man murmured. "I won't go too far, won't do anything... _invasive._ I'd simply be a fool to let an opportunity like this pass by, when I have you all to myself." A deep chuckle. "I might be here for business, but who says you can't mix it with pleasure?"

Hot breath puffed against his neck and cheeks and lips. Familiar words were cooed endlessly in his ears. Hands roamed. Everything was blurry. Everything went black.

After a while, he felt himself being moved, clothing being pulled back over his body. There were stairs, and then a car ride, and more stairs, and then

"Sleep tight, little bird. I'll see you very soon."

* * *

When Dick woke up, he was in bed in his Blüdhaven apartment.

He was in underwear and the t-shirt he always wore to bed. He had the sheet over him but not the blanket. He phone was plugged in and charging on the nightstand. By all accounts, it was exactly the way he woke up every day in the spring months.

But he felt...off. He had a bunch of half-remembered dreams in his head, ones that left him feeling like he needed a million hot showers, left him feeling nauseous and shaky and almost _scared._

_Hello, little bird._

"Fuck," Dick muttered, and managed to get to the bathroom before he vomited.

There was no way it had been real, right? He had dreams all the time of Slade coming back; they were never real. And just because Dick couldn't remember what  _actually_ happened the night before didn't mean anything. There were many reasons for a foggy memory. It didn't mean that the demon of his nightmares had actually appeared.

"Think," Dick whispered to himself, head hanging over the toilet. _"C'mon,_ Grayson; what happened last night?"

There was...he'd gone to the AA meeting, his brilliant idea for an alternative to therapy. And then he'd...talked to someone? Yeah, he'd approached someone, started a conversation. Male. A scar on his face, maybe?

It was all so...fuzzy.

_It's good to see you again._

He vomited again, nothing more than bile this time.

"Snap out of it," Dick told himself when it ended, and then pushed himself to his feet. He filled a glass of water from the bathroom tap and downed it.

There was something he needed to do for his own peace of mind, but he was afraid of what he'd find, so he was probably pushing it off a little. He brushed his teeth. He straightened up the living room. He cleaned the kitchen counter.

"Stop being a coward," Dick sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "It was all just a weird dream. It's fine. You're...you're fine."

He headed back into his bedroom and stripped quickly, tossing his clothes onto his bed. Then, taking a deep breath, he stepped in front of his full-length mirror and checked his body for any marks.

Ten minutes later he slumped in relief; the only bumps and bruises were the ones he'd already had before last night. Nothing new. He shook his head at himself, rolling his eyes for being so paranoid. He had fucked up dreams all the time but they were  _never real._

_I'll see you very soon._

Dick was calling before he was completely aware of it, and then he cursed as it started to ring. If he hung up now, the person would just call him back. No, he needed to offer some other reason for having called. Then he'd be left alone.

_"Dick?"_

"Hi, Bruce," Dick greeted, keeping the anxiety out of his voice. "Just wanted to ask what time the gala starts tomorrow? I've got some stuff to do beforehand and I want to make sure I'm not late."

There was a long silence, one that made Dick shift awkwardly, and then Bruce asked, _"What happened?"_

 _Shit._ Bruce was too good at what he did. "Nothing, B. My handwriting's just _awful,_ and I can't tell if I wrote down that it started at five or six. "

Another silence, and then Bruce said, _"It starts at six."_

"Thanks-"

_"Jason and Tim are going to stop by your place today, by the way."_

Dick blinked. "Iwhat?"

_"Might stay the night, too."_

"Whawhy would they do that?"

 _"Jason has some kind of business in Bludhaven,"_ Bruce told him. His tone was so blasé. _"And Tim just needs to get out of the house."_

"Jay  _hates_ Bludhaven," Dick said dubiously. "And Tim can get out of the house without going to another  _city."_

Bruce hummed. _"Good point. You can ask them about it when they get there, then."_

"Bruce-"

_"I'll see you tomorrow, Dick."_

Dial tone.

"Fuck," Dick said, blinking at the wall.

* * *

Jason groaned and rolled out of bed, stumbling towards the door. He didn't know who was pounding on it at god-o'clock in the morning, but they were about to get a gun to the head.

He swung the door open and came face-to-face with Tim, who looked very unimpressed with the firearm Jason was pointing at him.

"Why are you here, Replacement?" Jason asked. "It's too fucking early for this shit."

Tim arched an eyebrow. "It's  _two in the afternoon,_ Jason."

Jason paused;  _huh._ He'd really thought it was earlier. Whatever, he'd had a fucking  _night._

Grumbling under his breath, Jason stepped away from the door, waving his little brother in. "Why are you here?"

"Bruce sent me," Tim began. "We need to-"

"I'm gonna stop you right there," Jason said, chuckling. He relocked the door and put down the gun before throwing himself down onto his couch, stretching out. "I had a busy night, and don't feel like doing anything for him right now. I'm going to that stupid fucking party tomorrow, so-"

"It's about Dick," Tim said firmly, shoving his hands into his pockets. Jason noticed the little furrow between the younger boy's eyebrows, the tightness of his jaw.

Jason sat up immediately. "What happened?"

Tim shook his head. "I don't know. But Bruce doesn't talk about feelings or anything, and yet he sent me a text message about half an hour ago saying the two of us need to go visit Dick. I asked why, and he said that you have some business in Bludhaven, and I needed to get out of the house."

Jason stared. "I don't have business in Bludhaven," he said dumbly. "I  _hate_ Bludhaven."

Tim gave him an irritated look. "I fucking  _know,_ Jason, and I was already  _out_ of the house when he sent me the text. He's giving us covers for being in Bludhaven, which means something's fucking  _wrong_ with our brother, so go get dressed."

* * *

His little brothers arrived just before four.

By that point, Dick had taken a shower, eaten something, and put on clean clothes. Then, he settled himself in front of the TV to try and fucking relax.

Dick didn't know why he was so anxious about Jason and Tim coming over. He was looking forward to it, of course, because he got more comfort from family than anything else, but he really didn't want them to ask him any questions. They knew nothing about his past. He really wanted it to stay that way.

The knock came, and he didn't even have time to stand up before the door was opening, his brothers walking in. Jason was holding a box of pizza, and Tim had a bag with what looked like bottles of soda.

"We come bearing gifts!" Jason announced, kicking the door shut behind them. They both headed for the kitchen, pulling out plates and cups.

Dick shook his head incredulously and got to his feet. "Y'know guys, I have a  _door_ for a  _reason."_

"We knocked," Jason said innocently. Beside him, Tim cracked a smile.

"Why are you here?" Dick asked, walking closer. He knew what Bruce had told him, but he knew that that was _false,_ too. He wanted to see what his brothers said.

Tim shrugged a shoulder. "Damian was being a painI just wanted to get out for a bit."

"Yeah," Jason snorted, pouring some soda, "so he decided to bug _me_ instead while I was busy. Figured since we were in Bludhaven anyway, we might as well stop by."

Well, no one could say his brothers were bad liars.

"You guys are so full of shit," Dick accused, shaking his head, but he was smiling. "Plain pizza?"

Jason rolled his eyes. "Yes, you priss, half the pizza is plain. Now come fucking eat something, and we can pick some shit movie to watch."

Dick blinked rapidly against the tears that were stinging his eyes. They must've dropped everything to come over. Bruce had told them something was up and they drove the forty minutes to visit, even brought pizza and soda. They had his back, always.

Seven years ago, when Jason had first become Robin, Dick had been so uncomfortable.  _Robin_ was the nickname his mother had given him, and seeing someone else using it had been...Well, those first couple months had been hard. But he'd come to adore that kid, becoming family. Grieving Jason had almost broken Dick all over again, and Tim must've thought him so empty when they first met.

But then Jason came back, and so he had two brothers. Then Stephanie and Cassandra and Damianthey were his family, and they had helped him keep sane more than they could even realize. With them he never felt alone, and whenever he was feeling like complete  _shit,_ one of them was always there for him.

It wasn't like life was easy, but his family certainly made it a hell of a lot better.

* * *

The pair of them did end up staying the night, and went out on patrol with Dick. The three of them had worked together countless times before, but Bludhaven was a completely separate beast from Gotham, and it was really funny watching his brothers' incredulous reactions to the things they came across.

It was, overall, a routine night. His fractured dreams from the night before were already slipping from his mind, covered by movies with his brothers and fighting by their side. Dick might've been exasperated with Bruce for pulling this, but he couldn't claim to not be grateful. He was feeling much better.

Which meant that everything had to go so,  _so_ wrong.

The men came out of nowhere, surrounding them. They fell into the familiar rhythm of fighting together, not having any time to question who these people were or what they wanted. Every time one went down it was like another took their place, an endless stream of faceless men.

They were being separated, too, he noticed after a little while. The men were slowly getting Dick, Jason, and Tim further and further apart, which amped up his anxiety. He wanted to be able to have his brothers' backs. He wanted them to have his.

When Jason cried out, Dick's concentration split for a moment, long enough to see the younger boy go down, an electric baton slammed against his side.

"Red Hood!" he yelled, eyes wide, but couldn't go to his brother, having his own opponents to face. He kept jerking around to try to keep Jason in his line of sight, and he saw the boy's hands being tied behind his back, his feet secured as well. Jason started to struggle against them and Dick breathed a sigh of relief that he was at least conscious again, if not free.

One of the people Dick was fighting got in a good punch to his gut, knocking the wind out of him. He doubled over and tried to back up, to get some space, but there were so many of them. Hands grabbed onto him and held him still for just long enough, and then an electric baton was jabbing him, sending high-powers volts of electricity scorching through his body.

A strangled sound forced its way out of his mouth as his jaw snapped shut, and then he collapsed to the ground, body twitching.

He must've blacked out for a second, because when he came to, he felt them tightening the ropes that were now binding his hands behind his back. He yanked against them and kicked out, connecting with flesh, but they simply jammed him with the baton again.

Nausea rolled through his stomach and he fought against the urge to vomit. Faintly, he became aware of the fact that he was being moved, and when he had enough control over his body to fight back, it was useless. They had his hands and feet bound; he had no leverage for escape.

Dick grunted as they dropped him, manhandling him so that he was on his knees. He tried to jerk away from them, but two of the men grabbed ahold of his shoulders, keeping him in place.

To his right, about thirty feet away, Jason and Tim were similarly thrown to the ground. Dick let out a little upset sound at seeing them, Tim with a giant bruise forming on his cheek, Jason bleeding from a cut on his forehead.

They looked as exhaustedand as  _pissed_ as he felt.

Dick took a look around, trying to figure out where they'd been brought. It seemed like a warehouse, very open and empty, with tall beams holding the vaulted ceiling and a cement floor beneath them.

Jason made an attempt to kick back at the people holding him still, but couldn't get any force behind it without risking crashing face-first onto the cement. He received a punch to the gut as punishment, and it sent him coughing.

"Get your hands off of him!" Dick yelled, pulling against the people holding him, straining towards his brothers.

"Calm down, little bird. Your brothers will be fine."

The voice was like ice water down his spine. He froze. His eyes went wide. His breathing  _stopped._

No. This...this couldn't be happening. There was no way he was there, holding him and his brothers captive. There was no way that after  _ten years_ he was popping up in Bludhaven, on one random fucking patrol night.

Slade Wilson walked into his line of sight, decked out in full Deathstroke armor, weapons strapped all over his body. He headed straight towards Dick, steps unhurried, like he was savoring the way Dick's anxiety was growing and growing with every slow motion.

Oh, he  _definitely_ was, the sadistic bastard.

"Get the fuck away from me," Dick snarled as Slade got closer. But he couldn't hide the way he was instinctively pushing back against the men holding him, trying to get further away.

Slade chuckled, and Dick shuddered at the sound. The mercenary crouched down directly in front of Dick and watched him for a moment. Then he reached up and pulled off his mask, revealing the face of Dick's nightmares.

The man, of fucking course, was smirking, his blue eye alight.

"You fought well," Slade complimented, "as I knew you would. I hired a  _lot_ of these thugs to ensure that they'd take you down; anything less would've been child's play for you, hmm?"

Dick hated _hated_ that the praise felt good. He had to remind himself that it was just a side effect, just fucking PTSD, and it didn't mean  _shit._

"I don't need your approval," he sneered.

The look Slade gave him was pure condescension. "Oh, we both know that's not  _quite_ true."

The mercenary removed his gloves and then reached out, his hand going up to cup the side of Dick's neck. The hero jerked back, straining to get away. He didn't want Slade's hands on his body. He didn't want this  _horrifying_ man anywhere  _near_ him, let _alone_

"Get away from him!" Tim yelled furiously.

"Gag them," Slade ordered offhandedly, not taking his eyes off of Dick's face, and his hand was burning when it made contact.

Dick flinched and a strangled sound climbed its way out of his throat. "Stop," he said, voice tight. "Leave me alone."

Slade shook his head, amusement tilting his lips, and lightly stroked Dick's skin. "I've missed you, little bird. It's been far too long; last night certainly wasn't as much of a reunion as I've wanted."

 _No._ Dick couldn't breathe. That hadn't been real, it had been a  _dream._ Not real, it _couldn't've_ been!

Seeing something in Dick's expression, Slade laughed, loud and surprised.  _"Oh,_ did you think it was all a dream? One more awful nightmare to haunt your days? Is that why Thing 1 and Thing 2 are here?" He glanced briefly in the direction of Jason and Tim, and smirked. "It's _cute,_ having them come over to _comfort_ you while your mind was full of me."

"Why are you doing this?" Dick demanded.

Slade laughed again, smiling ruefully. "Does that take you back, little bird? You feeling helpless and afraid, asking me  _why?"_

The awful thing was that  _yes,_ it did. Every time Slade had brought him back to himself, that was always the question he asked. Desperate and angry and filled with  _shame_ he just wanted to know  _why him._

He never really got a straight answer.

"What is the point of this?" Dick asked. His voice hitched on the last word as Slade's hand traveled lower, stroking down his neck and chest and stomach and then resting high up on his thigh. The mercenary smirked at the way he tensed under the touch.

"The  _point,_ little bird?"

"Yes," Dick said firmly, and then flinched as Slade squeezed gently. He pushed past the feeling. "You  _lost,_ remember? 'Cause I recall standing over you with the rest of the Justice League. You _lost!_ So is this some kind of temper tantrum? Get the fuck away from me, man."

Slade grinned at him, looking severely amused. "My, my; look at you! Boy Wonder, all grown up, actually looking me in the eye and telling me to get fucked. I'm impressed by you. Though over all, you haven't been faring very well, have you?"

Dick's brow furrowed briefly before he forced it smooth. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Slade rose an eyebrow. "All your little  _ticks,_ of course." The blood drained from Dick's face. "Or did you  _really_ think I wouldn't know about them?"

"How...?" Dick couldn't stop himself from numbly asking.

The mercenary hummed, low in his throat. "I've kept a _very_ close eye on you," he murmured. "So I know all about the things you can't stop yourself from doing, all the things that ten years of missing me have done to you."

 _"Missing_ you?" Dick hissed, so filled with rage that he actually saw red. "You think that for one goddamn second I  _missed_ you? Get the hell away from me, before the League comes down to kick your ass  _again."_

Slade shook his head patronizingly. "No, I don't think the League is going to show up in time, little bird. I timed this perfectly, you see, and all the big players are currently occupied, even _if_ one of them knew that something was wrong here."

Dick went still. "In time?" he echoed, voice barely more than a whisper. "What do you mean  _in time?"_

But Slade didn't say anything in response. His hand slid back up Dick's body, landing in its original spot cupping his neck. His other hand went up and peeled off Dick's domino mask, tossing it to the ground.

The hero didn't even have time to feel the loss of it before that hand moved to stroke through Dick's hair. Normally, Dick loved that motion, drew comfort from it. Now, it made him want to vomit.

"It's alright, little bird," Slade cooed softly. "I'm not mad at you. I understand why you did what you did."

Dick looked at him warily, unease growing in him. "What are you doing?"

"It's okay, it's okay. Time to come out, little bird. I'm not angry, in fact I'm so  _proud_ of you. You've done so well, been so strong. It's alright, little bird."

Dick was feeling...odd. "Stop," he snapped. "Whatever this is, I don't care! Shut the hell up."

Slade's grip on the side of his neck tightened, and Dick made a small sound of displeasure. That had always been what Slade used to ground him, and for ten years Dick had _hated_ people touching his neck. He didn't want this, whatever was happening. He wanted to leave, he wanted

"It's okay," Slade repeated. "I'm so proud of you, little bird-"

"Stop calling me that!" Dick yelled, but his voice trembled. "Don't-"

Slade shushed him. "Don't worry, little bird, I'm not angry. You had to let them do it, I understand. You betrayed me, but it can all be forgiven."

Okay, Dick was feeling  _very_ odd. This was bad. What was this? What was he doing?

"You've been so  _lost_ without me, haven't you, little bird? So afraid, separated from everyone. No one understands you, little bird, not like I do. You never let anyone in, because you always _knew_ that they would never be able to match me."

"Stop," Dick croaked. His head was  _swimming._ "That's not what...get off of me!" He tried, once again, to pull away, but he couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't  _think._

"I've missed you," Slade continued, completely ignoring all of Dick's comments. His grip remained tight on Dick's neck, his other hand kept stroking through his hair and brushing his cheek. "You've missed me too, little bird. All is forgiven, you just have to listen to me. It's alright. Little bird, it's time to come home.  _I'm_ your home, little bird. You know the truth. You belong at my side."

He couldn't...he...

"Stop this," Dick whispered. "I don't understandJ'onn got you out, I... _stop."_

"The Martian couldn't break our bond, little bird," Slade chuckled, shaking his head. "I spent _months_ working on your mind, Dick, and it was _perfect._ It was _masterfully_ done. One little walk through your mind wasn't going to get rid of _me."_ He grimaced briefly. "I'll admit he certainly did a good job, but there was no way he could _completely_ get rid of me, hmm?"

Dick blinked rapidly, horror bubbling in his chest.  _No._ "No, you're wrong, it's been  _ten years,_ he-"

"I've got you, little bird," Slade cooed. He leaned forward and pressed their foreheads together. "It's okay, just let go. You don't have to be in pain anymore, little bird."

Dick keened, the sound going out of him without his permission. There was a flash of triumph in Slade's eye, but it was gone so quickly that Dick thought he must've imagined it.

"I know, I know," Slade said sympathetically. "It's been so  _awful,_ hasn't it, little bird? You've struggled so much these last ten years, holding your mind together with duct tape and superglue. Let me help you, little bird, you know you want to. I can make this all better. I can make this all go away, little bird, you just have to surrender."

"Stop," Dick managed to get out, but everything felt so distant, so unimportant. Why was he fighting? He...needed to. Yes. He couldn't...stop. Giving up would be bad. Surrendering would be bad. He had to stay away from the fuzziness, from the peaceful, dark cloud that wanted to cover him.

"It's okay," Slade told him, "little bird, you don't have to be afraid. I can make this all better. You just have to obey me. Obey me, little bird, and this will all be better."

 _Obey._ Obey? He needed to...no, why would he do that? Wait, why wouldn't he? It looked so peaceful, sounded so good. Slade always took care of him, right? He praised him and gave him missions and he always did his best, right? Butno. This was...wrong. Right? Was it right? Or was he right that it was wrong?

 _Fuck,_ his head was  _swimming._

Dick whimpered. "Please-"

"Just let go, little bird. You'll be happy with me, just like before. It'll all be alright."

A sob forced its way out of Dick's chest. He shook his head. From somewhere to his right, he heard muffled shouting.

"You're doing  _so well,_ little bird," Slade said. "You're such a good boy. I know how confused you must be, how much this must hurtbut you're _so strong,_ little bird, and I have faith in you. You can do this. You just have to take a deep breath and do as you're told. Obey me, Dick. Follow my orders. And everything will be okay."

Dick made an unintelligible sound, something that could've been a word or could've been a groan.

He didn't notice the way he was now leaning into the hold on his neck.

Slade watched him carefully for a long moment, gaze scanning his expression and body language. Then he said- "Lights out, little bird."

Dick had never felt as disoriented as he did in that moment. It was like the universe was turning upside down, but the ground under his feet was attempting to stay still. There was a loud rushing in his ears and his mouth was suddenly very dry. His stomach rolled.

"Hng," Dick tried.  _"Nng."_ He was getting hot and cold flashes, leaving him feeling feverish and off-balance. This was so bad. What was happening to him?

Slade shushed him again. "It's alright, little bird. You're so strong, I know. But you need to  _obey_ me. Lights out, little bird. Be good for me."

He...wanted to be good. Yes, he was supposed to be good. Why wasn't he being good? Why would he fight? But  _no,_ no, he couldn't let this happen, it was...bad. He...shouldn't obey. He needed to...to get someone's help. Whose help? Why would he want anyone else's help? Slade was right there.

"Lights out, little bird."

Dick cried out, shaking his head. Slade kissed his forehead.

"You're so strong," he murmured. "So powerful. But it's time to surrender, little bird. It's time to come home."

"Please," Dick whispered, and now he wasn't so sure whether he was begging for this to stop or begging for Slade to take him home.

"You've been so lost without me, little bird. So broken. I can make you whole. You'll be whole with me, little bird. So  _obey."_

"Obey," Dick slurred. "I..."

"Yes," Slade said firmly. "Yes, little bird, obey me. Surrender to who you're supposed to be. Do as you're ordered. Little bird, lights out."

"Yes, Sir," Dick whispered, and then everything faded to black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 1 done! And things just get worse from here :)


	2. Chapter 2

The men holding Jason and Tim in place were the last to leave, making sure that the two vigilantes stayed put while everyone else left.

Dick and the mercenary Deathstroke were the first to go.

Before letting them go, the men slammed Jason and Tim with the electric batons again, making them shout and then collapse. The men moved quickly, then, vanishing from the warehouse and leaving the two boys alone.

Jason was the first to regain control of his body and got to work at freeing himself, Tim following quickly after. Neither of them said a word, entrenched in shock, breathing heavily. When their hands and feet were free and the gags removed, they turned to each other.

The same panic Jason was feeling was reflected in Tim's expression.

Tim's hand jerked up to his ear. "Batman! Batman, come in! This is code red!  _Bruce!_ Can you hear me?" He was practically yelling, but all he heard back was static.

"They jammed our comms," Jason croaked. "They..." He took a deep breath.  _"Fuck!_ What the hell just happened?!"

"We need to get back to Gotham," Tim said urgently. "We need to tell B-"

"No we need to follow them," Jason snarled. "We need to find out what the fuck just happened to our brother-"

"Jason!" Tim shouted. "We need to  _regroup,_ and you know that! Whatever just happened...You know as well as I do that they're long gone by this point. We need to contact Bruce! And if our comms are down, that means we have a thirty-to-forty-five minute drive ahead of us, twenty if we really press it. So let's  _go."_

There was a moment where Jason considered arguing further. He wanted to; he wanted to go after Deathstroke and Dick, find out what the fuck just happened, why Dick had just stood up and walked away after looking so distraught just a minute earlier. He didn't want to let them get any further away than they already were.

But Tim was rightif even half the things he'd heard about Deathstroke the Terminator were true, then it was more than likely that they wouldn't be able to track him down on their own, let alone actually beat him. This was a man who could go toe-to-toe with _Batman,_ and as much as Jason really fucking hated to admit it, he wasn't on Bruce's level.

"Our bikes are back at Dick's apartment building," Jason said firmly, already heading for the door. "Let's hurry."

They ran the entire way back, never slowing, and reached Dick's place in ten minutes. They then immediately jumped onto their motorcycles and sped off in the direction of Gotham.

Every few minutes, one of them would try the comms again, wishing and wishing for their father's voice in their ears other than static, hoping for someone else to have their backs in dealing with whatever just happened.

And really, what  _had_ just happened? Those men had come out of nowhere, and it had felt never-ending. They'd been skilled, too, and were moving them away from each other. They got tied up and moved and then shoved to the ground and then a top-notch fucking mercenary appeared out of goddamn nowhere and...

From how far away Jason and Tim were, there was a lot of the conversation they hadn't been able to hear, just a shouted phrase here and there. It had left the pair of them with nothing to do but watch their brother's panic and fury and  _fear._

Dick was afraid of Deathstroke, no doubt about it. Which Jason didn't understand, because far as he knew his big brother had never encountered the mercenary. Hell, barely  _anyone_ had encountered the mercenary, as long as Jason could remember. Definitely longer than _he'd_ been in this business. The last decade or so, Deathstroke had been far more underground. Roy had mentioned encountering Deathstroke when he was about sixteen, but that was...yeah, just about ten years.

Why hadn't Dick ever mentioned it? If Jason had known a big player like Deathstroke, Jason  _definitely_ would've bragged about it. Then again, that conversation certainly hadn't looked friendly.

_Get the fuck away from me._

_Why are you doing this?_

_You_ lost! _So is this some kind of temper tantrum?_

 _You think for one goddamn second that I_ missed _you?_

_Whatever this is, I don't care!_

_Stop calling me that!_

_Get off of me!_

Jason wished he could've heard the whole conversation, could've understood what that asshole was saying to Dick. The fear, the anger, the whimpers and the sobs, the pleading lookswhat had Deathstroke said to make Dick calm down after all of that? It had been so sudden; one second Dick looked so  _broken,_ and the next...

In the seven years he'd known Dick, Jason didn't think he'd ever seen his brother look so  _perfectly_ at peace. He came close when they were all around him, always seemed to be so happy when his family was with him, but just then with Deathstroke, that had been

Something else.

It made everything about what just happened feel even worse than it already did.

They definitely broke multiple laws in their haste to get back to Gotham and to the Manor, but neither of them paid in any mind, not even slowing until they were pulling into the batcave.

The pair of them immediately rushed for the computer, Tim pulling up the comms system.

"Batman, Robin, come in, this is urgent!"

A moment of horrible silence, and Jason was already impatient; "Dammit,  _respond!"_

Bruce's voice came in, and it was a relief to them both. _"Red Robin, Red Hood, what happened?"_

"I-" Tim began, and then blinked rapidly, not sure where to go from there. Jason picked it up for him.

"We were on patrol with Nightwing when men came out of nowhere, surrounded us, and then Deathstroke showed up-"

 _"Deathstroke?"_ Bruce interrupted, and his voice was at least fifteen degrees colder. _"Are you sure?"_

"Yeah I'm fucking sure!" Jason yelled back. "I might not've ever met him but everyone fucking knows what the merc's outfit  _looks_ like!"

"Batman, please get back to the cave," Tim said firmly. "We need to-"

_"We're on our way, five minutestell me what happened."_

Jason and Tim shared a lost glance, still trying to wrap their heads around what they'd seen, and then Tim took a calming breath and cleared his throat.

"We got surrounded and they shocked us with electric batons that knocked us down long enough for them to tie us up. Deathstroke arrived and started talking to Nightwing; Red Hood and I were too far away to make out anything other than bits and pieces. Nightwing became more and more distressed over the course of the conversation, and then he..."

Tim floundered, and turned to Jason with wide eyes. Once more, the elder boy went to pick it up.

"Then Nightwing got really fucking calm, and actually  _left with Deathstroke."_

There was dead silence on the other end of the comm, and neither Jason nor Tim tried to break it, instead standing in front of the computer, not even moving. A few minutes later, Batman and Robin appeared in the cave.

"Move," Bruce said as he walked briskly towards the computer.

Tim stepped to the side, frowning, but Jason just glared and crossed his arms. "No; tell us what-"

_"Jason."_

Normally, Bruce just saying his name in an attempt to silence him would just make Jason angry, but this time it pulled him up short. There was something in Bruce's voice that made the snarky comment die in his throat, and he stepped silently to the side.

Bruce didn't say anything else, didn't even glance at them, just tapping quickly at the keyboard. Jason, Tim, and Damian shared a wary look.

The computer screen lit as Bruce began a video call, and then Superman's face appeared on screen.  _"Batman. Is-"_

"Nightwing is back with Deathstroke," Bruce interrupted.

Superman's expression was one of pure shock.  _"What? How the hell did that happen? J'onn-"_

"Details can come later," Bruce said firmly. "I need you to let the League know so they can search and also be on guard."

 _"Considering what happened last time..."_ Superman agreed wryly, nodding. His expression softened, concern in his eyes. _"We'll get him back, Bruce; we did last time."_

"Call if you have any updates." Then Bruce hung up. He typed a few more keys, and a new video chat began going through.

A redhead Jason recognized as Dick's friend Wally appeared, an easy smile on the boy's face.  _"Batman! To what do I owe the-"_

"Nightwing is back with Deathstroke."

Wally's face fell, looking stricken.  _"What? No, no that's not possible-"_

"Flash, focus," Bruce barked. "I need you to reach out to Artemis, Tempest, Miss Martian, and Superboy; they all need to be made aware of this development."

 _"Right,"_ the speedster agreed immediately, nodding, but looked sick to his stomach. _"I'll call the others and we'll all head to Gotham, meet up with you."_

Only those who knew Bruce very well would notice the infinitesimal pause before he said, "That's not necessarywe can check in over call-"

 _"Dude,"_ Wally interrupted, shaking his head. There was a small, bittersweet smile on his face. _"We went through this together last time, and we'll do it this time, too. We're used to you wanting to do the whole_ I'm-Batman-I-Can-Do-This-Alone _thing, but we've got your back here. Nightwing's one of ours, and we'll zeta to Gotham immediately, okay?"_

Bruce pursed his lips and then said, "...Alright." He hung up, another few keyboard strokes, another video call popped up. Martian Manhunter.

_"Batman, I am-"_

"Did Superman call you?" Jason blinked at how  _flat_ Bruce's voice was.

J'onn J'onzz grimaced.  _"He did. I do not know how-"_

"You told us it was gone," Bruce said tightly. "You told  _me_ Dick was safe. In fact, I recall you looking _Dick_ in the eye and telling him that Deathstroke wouldn't be able to touch him again, when that thirteen-year-old boy expressed his concern over whether or not he was truly himself."

 _"I know,"_ the Martian said quietly. Regret was etched into every line on his face.  _"It was...we_ all _believed-"_

"Not all of us are telepaths," Bruce interrupted coldly. "It was  _your_ job to ensure our  _belief_ was  _reality."_

 _"Yes,"_ J'onn agreed, still quiet,  _"it was. I have failed him and you, and for that I am sorry. It was a complex thing, as I told you and him at the time, which makes this oversight understandable."_

"Understandable." Bruce's voice was full of contained fury.

J'onn grimaced again, and sighed.  _"Understandable, but not excusable. I know. I will scan for his mind, Batman, and call you if I locate him."_

"Good," Bruce said sharply, and then ended the call.

The batcave fell silent. Bruce stayed at the computer, hands pressed against the counter, his head ever-so-slightly bowed. Jason had a million questions, and he was sure Tim and Damian did too, but none of them could bring themselves to break the silence.

Suddenly, Bruce stood straight and turned around, taking a few steps towards them. He looked over his three sons blankly for a moment, and then said, "Sit."

Very out of character, none of them hesitated to do so, taking seats at the conference table. None of them said a word, and Bruce watched them for another long moment.

Then he began to speak.

"When Dick was thirteen, he was on a covert ops team referred to as _Young Justice_ with the heroes Tempestthen known as AqualadFlash when he was still Kid-Flash, Artemis, Superboy, and Miss Martian. After a little while, we were given reason to suspect that there was a mole. It was a loose suspicion, but one we had to take seriously nonetheless." He paused. "It was discovered that Dick was the mole."

Damian popped to his feet, face twisted in outrage. "How dare you make that accusation!" he yelled. "Grayson is  _not_ a traitor! He's the most honorable person I know!"

"I know, Robin," Bruce said tiredly. "I know. Would you let me finish?"

The kid didn't look happy about it, but when Tim touched his wrist, he slammed back down into his chair, jaw clenched. "Fine," he grit out. "Continue."

"We also discovered that he wasn't doing it of his own free will." Bruce took a slow breath in, and let it out. "The mercenary Deathstroke had managed to...brainwash Dick, turning him into a sleeper agent. Dick had no idea he was even betraying his team unless in Deathstroke's presence. In the end we managed to capture Deathstroke and Dick, and Martian Manhunter went through Dick's mind to dissolve the conditioning."

"Clearly he was successful," Jason said sarcastically. Bruce clenched his fists and didn't disagree; going by the conversation he'd just had with the Martian, Bruce was most certainly _pissed._

"How long?" Tim asked. "I mean, how long was Deathstroke forcing Dick to act as his mole?"

Bruce hesitated. It was so slight and so fast that barely anyone else would've noticed, but his kids did. "Seven months, just about." He sounded just as sure as he always did, but that hesitation at the beginning...

"What are you leaving out?" Jason asked, eyes narrowing.

Bruce pursed his lips, and for a moment it looked like he wasn't going to reply. Then, reluctantly, he said, "Dick has never spoken about what he went through. We don't actually know the specifics of how long he was under Deathstroke's control. Our estimate of seven months is because the leaked information and Dick's vague comments about the first time he remembered blacking out, plus the month where we knew he was under control."

The three young heroes stared at their father, not comprehending. Dick  _never-?_

"What do you mean  _never?"_ Tim asked incredulously. "It's been  _ten years_ and Dick's never said a word? Dick is all about talking problems through!"

Bruce didn't respond to the question. "We can only assume that Deathstroke had some kind of backdoor in Dick's mind to retake control."

"How did he get control before?" Jason asked. "How did it work?"

"He had trigger words," Bruce explained. "Phrases that would put Dick into different mindsets. Deathstroke would say the words and Dick would instantly shift."

"It didn't go like that this time," Tim said slowly, clearly going over the encounter from earlier in his head. Jason was doing the same.

"Yeah," Jason agreed. "It...looked like it was hurting him. He looked..." Nausea turned his stomach. Dick's fear and anger...he'd never wanted to see his brother look like that. "It took a while, is all. It wasn't just a couple words."

Bruce nodded slowly, considering the words. He murmured a couple things to himself, too quiet for the rest of them to hear, and then sighed. "Right now, we need to focus on actually locating and taking down Dick; then we can work on a solution to the conditioning."

"That doesn't sound  _too_ hard," Tim said hesitantly. "I mean, you have the entire Justice League looking for Deathstroke and Dickthey can't hide forever. And then from there we just separate them and take them down."

Jason nodded, smiling wryly. "Yeah; we can apologize to Dick later for the beating."

Bruce blinked at them, looking almost _surprised,_ and then frowned. He opened his mouth to say something but before he could, there was a flash of yellow lightning and then the second Flash was standing next to them.

"Hey, guys," he said with a small wave. He looked to Bruce. "Everybody else is on their way, too; I'm simply faster." He glanced over the room, wincing at the expressions he must've seen on the three younger boys' faces. "Ah, so you told them, then."

"Yes," Damian snapped. "We know what that  _mercenary_ did to Nightwing."

"We were talking about what to do when we find them," Tim said, glancing briefly at Damian with a worried look before back to Wally. "Separating them, then we take Dick down."

Flash snorted and thenseeing their serious expressionsblinked at them just like Bruce had, his brow furrowing in confusion. He turned to look at the Dark Knight. His gaze was hesitant, and his voicewhen he spokewas the same. "You...didn't tell them what Dick did?"

Something uneasy settled in Jason's stomach. "What did Dick do?"

Bruce shook his head in response to Wally's question. "I was about to, when they first made the comment to me, but then you arrived. By all means, go ahead."

The speedster nodded, then looked back to the younger heroes. He licked his lips anxiously and then said, "Okay, uh, the reason I responded the way I did when you mentioned taking Dick down once separated from Deathstroke is because, well, um..."

"Spit it  _out,_ Flash," Damian snapped. "We do not have all day."

Wally grimaced and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. "Right. Sorry." He took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and then continued.

"I don't doubt the skill the three of you havehell, I've sparred with you guys enough to know that you can definitely kick my ass six ways to Sunday," he cracked a smile. "You were trained by the same man Dick was, and I know you're all more or less pretty equal in ability, all with your own strengths and weaknesses. I say all that first so that you know I'm not disrespecting your skills when I tell you that you will  _not_ find taking Dick down easy, even with all three of you."

Jason narrowed his eyes, barely keeping himself from bristling despite Wally's attempt to ease the blow. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Damian stiffen. "Just because the Golden Boy came first-"

"Jay," Tim interrupted, eyes still fixed on Wally. "Let him finish."

Flash offered Tim a grateful look, and then another to Jason and Damian when they settled.

"Back when all that shit was going down, we fought against Dick. Our whole team, and he took each and every one of us down. All of us attacking at once and yet he still beat us. By himself, okay? No help from Deathstroke necessary, and this was when he was about half the size he is now, with ten years less of  _training_ than he has now. He took down Superboy, Miss Martian, Tempest, Artemis, meall of us, like it was nothing. Like it was  _child's play._

"And..." The speedster glanced at Bruce, who inclined his head slightly as if in permission. "Not only did Dick beat the team, but he took down three Leaguers as well."

 _"What?"_ Jason blurted at the same time Tim asked,  _"Who?"_

"Green Arrow, Black Canary-" the three Robins sucked in sharp breaths, all having trained with Dinah and knowing how skilled she was, "-and, let's not forget,  _Batman."_

Jason stared at Wally, because  _no way._ There was simply no way that had happened. But when he turned to look at Bruce, the vigilante didn't look like he was going to deny the statement.

"What the hell," Tim said simply, speaking for them all.

"How the fuck?" Jason shouted, continuing the sentiment. "Are you  _kidding_ me? No fucking way did thirteen-year-old Dick do all that. I mean, I know he's badass but that is-" He shook his head incredulously. "No way."

"It happened," Bruce said severely. "He was trained by me and the other big players of the League, and then he turned that training against us. He will do the same to you."

"How did he beat you?" Jason asked. "I've seen you kick his ass before; hell,  _I've_ gone toe-to-toe with him and I sure as fuck can't beat you!"

"He used my sympathies against me," Bruce said flatly. "Something  _you_ attempted to do in a form when you came back to lifeI was ready that time. Less trusting."

"And Jason," Wally began hesitantly, "to what you said about fighting him, well, uh, just so you know, whenever Dick fights you _any_ of youhe...holds back."

Before Jason could even _begin_ to feel insulted by the possible implications in that statement, Damian was coolly demanding, "Explain." 

Wally and Bruce shared a glance. Bruce inclined his head, more silent permission to expand upon things that they'd been carrying with them for ten years.

"After Dick came back," Wally began hesitantly, "he was...cautious. When training with us. We could never tell if it was because he was afraid of hurting us because of everything that had happened or..." He sighed. "Anyway, we'd been working by his side for a long time so we knew how he fought, and it was really obvious that he was holding himself back. For ten years he's done that; whenever he's training with any other heroes, he holds back.  _Including_ you three."

"He's afraid," Tim murmured sadly, staring at the table. He rose his eyes to Bruce. "He took down his teammates, his  _friends._ He took down people he looked up to like Black Canary and, well, _you..."_ He licked his lips. "That's why he holds back with everyone, right? He's afraid of hurting those he loves again."

"Which is why I need to make something very clear to you," Bruce said. "I need you all to understand me when I say he will  _not_ hold back now."

"Bruce-" Tim began.

"No," Bruce interrupted. "Listen to me. Right now, he doesn't  _care_ that you're his brothers. He doesn't care about your lives; if Deathstroke tells him to end you _he will do so._ He might try to manipulate you, make you think the conditioning is breakingdo not for  _one second_ believe him. He is not your friend, he is not your brother, he is your _enemy._ If you have him backed into a corner, he will do what he has to in order to get out, so you _cannot_ let up."

"You say that like it's so easy," Jason sneered, getting to his feet. "This is  _Dick!_ Are you honestly saying that you have no problem taking him down even if he's begging you not to?"

"No," Bruce replied evenly. "Which is why he  _beat me."_

That made Jason's next comments die in his throat.

Bruce's expression softened slightly. "He knows you all love him, which means that if you're poised over him to deliver the knock-out blow and he starts to look terrified, or starts to cry, or even acts like he's waking from some horrible nightmare, he knows you'll hesitate. And in that moment, he'll take you down. So I reiteratehe is not your friend, he is not your brother, he is your  _enemy,_ and you have to treat him as such until we get him fixed."

Jason couldn't take it anymore. He turned on his heels and strode towards the exit, getting onto his bike. He needed to punch things.

Bruce called after him, and then he heard Batman's voice in his comm, but he ignored both, taking off and making his way to Crime Alley.

He then proceeded to pick a fight with ever low-life he came across, the next couple hours passing in nothing but blood and bone. Frankly, they were all very lucky he didn't have his _real_ guns on him.

After a while, when he had to take a break or risk really harming himself, Jason settled onto a rooftop and looked out over Gotham, his legs dangling off the side. Now, with no fight to distract his mind, his thoughts went to Dick.

There were so many things about his brother over the years that Jason had never understood. His discomfort when receiving praise, despite being a performer at heart. The way he called Bruce  _Sir_ every once in a while, usually after a challenging mission. The days Dick would barely speak a word, despite looking perfectly alert. His tendency to go over the batcave's security footage in the middle of the night.

And then there were the things Jason never mentioned, the things so personal that he was almost afraid of the answers. Like the long, pale scars down Dick's forearms, so obviously self-inflicted. Or the fact that twice a month Dick went to AA meetings. Or the honest understanding Dick always offered the victims of sexual assault that they came across.

Seven months under a monster's control? Yeah, Jason could imagine how fucked up that could make someone feel. Attempted suicide, alcohol addiction, connection to rape victims?

 _God,_ how badly Jason wanted Deathstroke dead.

And there was a part of him, a part that he didn't want to acknowledge, that was hurt by Dick's secrecy. They'd known each other for seven years (given, some of that time was Jason being not exactly alive) and yet this monumental thing that his brother had been through was never mentioned.

Why? Had Dick just never trusted him? Never trusted  _any_ of them? They were familyit was something Dick said over and over again from the very beginning, something he preached until they all believed it, and yet he'd left out the most fundamental thing about himself, an event that had shaped him as a human being. Dick knew everything about the rest of them, and apparently they didn't even know half of who he was.

Obviously, the Justice League knew. And at least five other young heroes knew. A few villains, too, that was for sure.

All of those people, and none of them were his family.

Jason heard footsteps behind himself and tensed, but once he recognized the tread he forced himself to relax again.

"Artemis, Tempest, and Miss M arrived a while ago," Tim said quietly, stepping up to the ledge of the roof next to Jason. "Superboy's off-world at the moment, but they got a message to him and he's on his way back."

Jason stayed silent.

"Batman is currently telling Spoiler and Batgirl the situation," Tim continued. "I didn't want to hear it all again."

"And the kid?"

Tim sighed softly, then sat down as well, swinging his legs against the wall absently. "He vanished a few minutes after you left, but I found him a little bit ago passed out in Dick's room." He grimaced. "He was wearing one of Dick's sweatshirts and wrapped up in his heated blanket."

Jason smiled, a bitter twist to his lips. "Dick loves that thing," he murmured.

His little brother nodded, and Jason saw out of the corner of his eye that Tim's smile was much like his own. "Any time the temperature dropped below seventy, he saw it as an excuse to overheat his body with it."

"Still can't believe he actually left it at the Manor," Jason snorted. "Probably just for the gremlin's benefit."

Tim hummed his agreement. Then his smile faded, morphing into a scowl. "We're reminiscing like he's dead. But we can still get him back; this isn't the end. He's not fucking dead."

"No," Jason agreed quietly, eyes on the Gotham skyline, "he's not. But I bet he wishes he was."

"Jay…" Tim said, pain in his voice and in his eyes, and Jason didn't know what to do.

This was the part where Dick offered comfort, where he said something that made them feel better, where he wrapped them up in his arms and made them feel safe and loved. This was the part where Dick rallied them, or simply wiped away their tears, and Jason didn't know how to be that. He didn't know how to fix this. He didn't know how to make Tim or Damian feel better, not when he felt like such shit himself, not when he had no answers and no clue if they would be able to get Dick back.

So he went for the simple thing, the thing Dick probably would've already been doing, the thing Jason really fucking wished he could get from his big brother right now.

He put an arm around Tim, pulling the younger boy against his side in a tight hug. "It's gonna be okay, baby bird," he whispered, and felt Tim's arms go up around him as well. "It's gonna be okay."

* * *

"Seven," Dick grunted as the whip licked fire across his back once again. Then another. "Eight."

He worked to keep his breathing even, his heartbeat calm. He kept his sounds of pain quiet and to a minimum. He didn't want to disappoint his masterthis was a punishment, and he wanted to take it with his pride intact, to show his master that he wasn't weak, that he was still worth something.

He barely kept himself from screaming when the twelfth strike of the whip hit his balls. A strained noise forced its way out of his throat, his eyes twitching in pain. He fought for control over his own body.

"Twelve," he panted, and then swallowed, working to calm his breathing again.  _Fuck_ his body hurt.

"Good boy," Slade purred behind him, and Dick felt a rush of pleasure. "You're taking this so well, being so good for me. We're not done yet, though; I think you still deserve more. Or do you want to stop?"

 _Yes,_ Dick thought.  _Yes I want to stop._ But he couldn't say that,  _wouldn't._ His master had decided he needed to be punished for his betrayal, and Dick knew he did. He couldn't tell Slade to stop, couldn't be that weak, that insubordinate.

"No, Sir," Dick said, taking a few deep breaths. "I can do this, Sir."

He could hear the smile in Slade's voice when the man once again said, "Good boy."

The strikes began again.

When they hit twenty strikes, he began whimpering, but still kept the count, still fought for control of his body. When they hit thirty, he couldn't stop himself from screaming, but he still kept the count. At forty, his feet gave out, leaving him only supported by the chains connecting his wrists to the ceiling, but he still kept the count.

At forty-five, his master finally _blessedly_ stopped.

Slade murmured comforting things as he released Dick from the chains, catching him before the younger man could collapse. He supported him as they walked to the bedroom, and then laid him out on the bed on his stomach as he treated the open wounds on Dick's back.

Dick drifted in half-consciousness, letting his master take care of him, pride filling him as he heard his master tell him how well he'd handled his punishment. He'd earned the pain, but it was over now. He'd done well, Slade was happy with him. Slade was happy with him. Slade was happy with him.

Why he'd ever wanted anything other than this, Dick didn't understand. Bruce and his brothers were great, but they couldn't hold a candle to Slade. They were meaningless, unimportant, compared to his master. None of them mattered anymore. He was loyal. If making Slade proud meant turning on each and every one of them, he'd do it without hesitation.

Slade entered him with barely any warning, and Dick cried out before calming himself. It had been a long time, that's all, but he wanted it. He wanted Slade. Everything was okay.

* * *

It was impossible for Dick to have forgotten what it felt like, that jarring moment between blissful ignorance and horrifying awareness, but it shocked him nonetheless, making him suck in a heavy breath, his eyes going wide, his pulse speeding up.

"I almost forgot how good you look like this," Slade murmured, and Dick hated that their thoughts were apparently in a similar direction at the moment. "And it's so much more potent this time, isn't it? Because it's been so long. Because you thought you were free."

Dick knew Slade was just baiting him, just trying to get under his skin, but that didn't mean it wasn't working. Because  _yes,_ waking up this time was so much worse than all the other times combined, because  _this time_ was ten years after everything ended. Ten fucking years. He'd thought he was free, thought J'onn had gotten rid of the conditioning, thought he would never have to be afraid of himself again.

_(More than he already was anyway, of course. Because free of mind control never meant he wasn't a threat to those he loved, not really, not after everything he'd done. But he'd thought...well, he'd taken comfort from the fact that his mind was completely his own. What a load of bullshit.)_

"You going to say anything, pretty bird, or just sit there looking like the world has ended?"

He was tied up much like he had been many times in the past, his arms bound to the armrests of the chair, his feet bound to the legs, his midsection bound to the back. The chair was bolted to the floor as well, of course, because Slade was no amateur.

"I could always command you to look at me, of course, but I was hoping we could have a civilized conversation."

Dick rose his gaze from the floor, glaring hatefully at the man in front of him. Slade was sitting across from him, posture perfectly relaxed in a large armchair, one arm thrown over the back, the other resting on where his ankle sat on his knee.

 _"There_ are those pretty baby blues," Slade cooed, smirking at him.

Dick just kept staring. There was nothing to say, after all. No bargaining would get him out of this, no pleading would move the mercenary to let him go. There was no point in screaming or cryingall it would do was amuse Slade, and Dick wasn't in the mood to give the psychopath what he wanted.

Slade rose an eyebrow, gaze flicking curiously over Dick's body. "Silent treatment? Really?"

"What do you want me to say, Slade?" Dick asked dully. "What could you  _possibly_ want to talk about?"

The mercenary watched him for a few more seconds, and then hummed and said, "Your disconnect from reality was greatly understated."

Dick blinked at him. He ran over the words in his mind, then again, but they didn't make any more sense than the first time around. "What?"

"I've had people watching you," Slade explained, "over the years. Keeping an eye on my property-"

I'm not your  _property,"_ Dick snarled, but Slade continued speaking as if Dick hadn't said a thing.

"-so that I could do my job but still keep track of you. And while it was clear that our time together left its..." A smile twitched at Slade's lips, "... _scars,_ it appears that you're far worse off than I was led to believe."

Dick narrowed his eyes, rage simmering in his gut. How dare this man? How  _dare_ he make any comments about Dick's mental state when he'd literally just kidnapped him, tortured him, and _raped_ him? Scars from their time together?  _Far worse off?_ How the fuck did the man expect him to react to this whole situation? Did he actually think Dick would be at all interested in reliving the past, screaming and raging and begging to be let go? Did he expect Dick to happily engage in conversation with him?

_(And why was he awake? Why was Slade so much of a sadist that he had to bring Dick back to reality, make Dick relive all those times as a kid when he was scared and alone? Why couldn't he just leave Dic_ _k under his control, blissfully unaware of the pain and suffering he was really going through?)_

_(But another part of him was stupidly hopeful, because if he was awake then he had a chance to escape. If he was awake his body was mostly his own. If he was awake he didn't have to feel_ grateful _to be in Slade's presence.)_

"You egotistical son of a bitch," Dick seethed. "You have no right to talk about how I'm doing,  _no right_ to act like you know anything about me. So you've had people keep an eye on me, big fucking deal, you pedophilic stalker. That doesn't mean you've got a single clue about me. Disconnected from reality? Are you  _kidding me?_ You distorted my reality!  _Nothing_ felt real for a while,  _nothing_ made sense! I clawed my way back to sanity  _by myself,_ and having a few ticks leftover is  _nothing._

"You, you absolute asshole, are  _nothing._ You lie and you cheat and you manipulate just like every stupid fucker we take down, and just because you have an extra trick up your sleeve doesn't make you better than any of them. We beat you once, and we'll do it again, and this time you won't crawl out of the hole we throw you in.

 _"Scars,"_ Dick scoffed. "You sit there and talk about the  _scars_ you left behind. You know what, Slade? Yeah, maybe I'll carry some of this shit with me for the rest of my life. But it's no different than the bullet wound on my arm or the stab wound in my stomach or any of the many other marks on my body. I've outgrown you, Slade, and your bullshit control. You might have a couple words that make me compliant, but I've got a hell of a family coming after me, and a whole life to live without you.

"So don't you dare talk about what goes on in my head like you understand a single goddamn thing about me. You know  _nothing,_ you  _are_ nothing, and thinking that you're anything other than a passing enemy is what's going to end up being your downfall."

Dick drew in a deep breath and let it out. His heart was pounding after his speech, and he had to admit to being surprised by himself. And actually...pretty _proud._ He didn't know how much of what he'd just said he actually believed (the scars Slade left behind on his mind were far worse than the physical ones on his body) but it made him feel strong, it made him feel _powerful,_ and it made him feel hopeful for the future that laid ahead of him.

Maybe he didn't quite believe he'd ever fully move past what Slade did to him, but he sure as hell knew that it wouldn't dictate the rest of his life. He wouldn't let it.

Slade stared at him blankly for a little while longer, examining him intently, and then he started to smile.

 _"There_ you are," he said, pure pleasure tied into every syllable.

Dick blinked. "Excuse me?"

Slade waved a hand through the air. "You were just sitting there looking like you were waiting for death, talking like you saw no point in anything. I mean, I certainly don't  _need_ you to be lively for you to do your job, especially since I have complete control of you, but it would certainly be... _disappointing_ if you really were just a shell of a man."

Dick sneered at him. It was just a set up, then. Slade making those comments about his mental state. He'd just wanted to see if Dick would take it lying down or actually bite back.

He  _hated_ playing into what this psychopath wanted.

"What, you want a gold star for making me yell at you?"

Slade just smirked. After a moment, he got to his feet, taking the few steps forward until he was standing right in front of Dick. Dick jerked backnot that there was anywhere to goand tried to dodge the hand that rose towards his face. He was, of course, unsuccessful, and Slade gripped his chin tightly, holding his head in place and forcing him to meet his eyes.

"That was an impressive speech, truly. But there's something very important that you got very  _wrong,_ pretty bird."

"Oh?" Dick grit out, hating the contact, hating the condescension, hating the new term of endearment. "And what would that be?"

"I  _do_ know you," Slade murmured. "In fact, I probably know you better than you know yourself. I  _definitely_ know you better than you so-called _family_ does."

Dick jerked against the grip on his chin, but couldn't dislodge the mercenary. "You're wrong," he snarled, gaze burning.

"No, I'm not," Slade replied, perfectly confident. _"_ _You,_ Dick, are an open book to me. Always have been, always will be. I understand who you are, and I know you hate that, but you _know_ I'm right. It would be impossible for me to not know you, kid. You're  _mine,_ do you understand that? You belong to me,  _with_ me, and I don't make proclamations like that lightly. I understand you at your core, Grayson, and you'll always come back to me."

"You're delusional," Dick breathed. "You're actually  _insane,_ jesus fuck. You do understand I'm not here  _willingly,_ right? That you literally just brainwashed me into coming here? That I am currently  _tied to a chair_ because you know that if I were free I would attack you and then escape. This isn't me  _coming back to you."_

Slade laughed. "Yes, pretty bird, I'm aware of why you're here. I'm rather proud of it, actually, considering how fickle brainwashing can be, and what I did to your mind is a _masterpiece._ I'm not delusional, Dick, I'm  _right._

"I know you better than anyone. I know what happens in your nightmares and your daydreams; I know the length of your fuse for different topics, and the way you then calm yourself down; I know that if you see someone that reminds you of yourself you'll approach a stranger at an AA meeting-" Dick's breath hitched, "-I know how you look in pure ecstasy and in blinding pain; and I know what will happen when I make you take a life."

Dick just blinked at him for a long moment, the words not sinking in. And then, in a very quiet, shaky voice, Dick said, "What do you mean? What are you...?"

"They'd never look at you the same way," Slade said in a deceptively gentle tone. "Sure, they'd know that it was under duress, that you literally had no ability to stop yourself, but underneath all of that would be the knowledge that you killed someone.  _More_ than one someone, actually. The Bat would say it was fine, that you'd done nothing wrong, but there would be a  _distance_ between you, wouldn't there? You wouldn't be able to escape that.

"And with everyone in your life stepping away from you, where would you go? You'd be alone, isolated,  _devastated_ by what you'd done and unable to get _real_ support from those around you. You'd be seeking something,  _needing_ something, and then when I offered you compassion and understanding and a space to heal, you would latch on to the comfort I was offering, despite our history, despite who you knew I was. You would hate yourself enough to think you  _deserved_ whatever I could dish out."

A smile curved his lips. "Hell, I'd even bet quite a bit of money that I'd get you following my orders again, this time without needing to use the two magic words."

Dick stared up at him with wide eyes, lips parting. He could feel his breathing picking up, his heart pounding in his chest.

He wanted to protest. He wanted to scream that that wasn't true, that it wouldn't happen like that. But he...didn't know. If he killed someone, _more_ than one someone, he would hate himself. He would believe he deserved whatever was coming to him. And with Slade giving him the comfort he desired and the punishment he deserved, Dick would probably be putty in his hands, easily moldable.

It was absolutely  _terrifying._

"But that's neither here nor there at the moment," Slade said softly, his voice a caress. His hand released Dick's chin, going up to stroke through the hero's hair. Dick let out a shuddering breath, closing his eyes. "Not something you need to worry about just yet, pretty bird. We have all the time in the world."

As tears started to slide silently down Dick cheeks, Slade murmured soothing things, his large hand a steady weight through his black locks.

It felt like when Bruce used to comfort him as a kid. Dick wanted to hold on to that feeling, to let the feeling of Bruce help calm him. Another part of him hated that he was dragging his father into this disgusting thing between him and Slade.

"What even happened?" Dick asked, voice no more than a whisper. "How are you here?"

Slade didn't stop stroking his hair. "What do you mean?"

"I  _mean_ that the Justice League captured you ten years ago. I was there, you were trapped. So how are you...out? There have beenrumors, reported sightings of you in the last ten years, but it doesn't make any sense..."

The mercenary chuckled, a quiet rumble. "No prison can hold me, pretty bird, you know that." He stroked one last time through Dick's hair before pulling back and returning to his seat. Dick let his eyes slide open.

"If it makes you feel any better," Slade continued with a smirk, "I was imprisoned for three years before escaping, so, longer than I ever have been before. Your mentor and his superpowered best friends were certainly determined to keep me contained."

"And yet here you are," Dick replied, voice strained.

He tried to think back to seven years ago, tried to find when Slade must've escaped. No way Bruce didn't know, and no way he would've been able to hide his reaction to something like that. There had been a couple big things going down that year, and so Bruce's moodand Dick's, reallyhad been up and down, so one of those tense periods could've been Deathstroke escaping from prison...

But why didn't Bruce  _tell_ him? Dick doesn't want to feel betrayed, but he  _does._ How could Bruce have kept something so monumental from him? He was probably acting under some misguided desire to protect Dick, but after a clear failure to recapture the mercenary, why wouldn't Bruce share that information?

Keeping this from him was such a monumental breach of trust. Keeping this from him was despicable. Keeping this from him could've contributed to the situation he currently found himself in.

What Dick wouldn't give for the opportunity to be at home, yelling at Bruce.

"Penny for your thoughts, pretty bird?"

"What's with the new nickname?" Dick grumbled, completely uninterested in sharing what he was thinking about.

"Don't like it?" Slade teased. "I think it's fitting." Dick just stared at him, unimpressed. Slade's lips quirked. "I can simply call you  _little bird,_ if you want, Dick, but I thought it might be better to put some distance between the command words and how I refer to you."

Dick narrowed his eyes suspiciously, but let it go. The problem wasn't worth any arguing.

"When I release your bindings, stay where you are, little bird," Slade said, and as soon as the words were said Dick knew that he would,  _hated_ that he would, and no matter how much he screamed at his body to  _move,_ to  _attack,_ he did nothing at all when the mercenary untied the ropes from his body.

"I hate you," Dick muttered, truth ringing in his words, and Slade did nothing but smirk before turning and striding away.

"Follow me, little bird."

And Dick did, picturing throwing a knife between the man's shoulder blades.

"Where are we?" Dick asked, glancing around them. It seemed _vaguely_ familiar, but not enough for Dick to even come close to placing it.

Slade glanced briefly over at the hero, raising an eyebrow. "You've been here before; don't remember?" He didn't give Dick time to consider the question, continuing speaking. "It's just one of my many basesone of the larger ones, really; almost a compound. We're not still in Bludhaven, if that's what you're wondering."

Dick tried to picture having been here before, but even though it felt slightly familiar, he couldn't actually recall having walked these hallways.

"And where are we headed?" Dick asked apprehensively.

"The White Room," Slade replied, like that was an answer that made sense.

Dick let out an annoyed breath  _(ignoring the sudden feeling of dread tight in his stomach, like his body knew something he didn't)_ and grit out, "Okay, and what  _is_ the White Room?"

Once again, Slade glanced over at him, looking amused. "You really don't remember the process at all, do you? Not even after all these years. How interesting."

Dick frowned. "The process?" he echoed.  _"What_ process?"

Slade hummed and said nothing else, continuing to lead on.

Eventually they hit a metal door, stainless steel with an electronic keypad on the wall beside it. Slade entered in a code and the door slid open with a quiet hiss. Lights flicked on automatically in the room, bright florescents on the ceiling with white, faintly lit up walls and a floor.

Dick knew without a shadow of a doubt that he most certainly did  _not_ want to enter that room. It meant bad things,  _bad things,_ and he wanted to run,  _needed_ to run, he couldn't go back in there, needed to escape

"Do you remember?" Slade cooed. Dick's eyes darted over to him, wide and panicked, and the mercenary just watched him curiously, a faint smile curling his lips. "That's quite the reaction you're having, pretty bird. Do you remember what this place is?"

No, he didn't remember what that room was, but he was absolutely  _terrified_ of it.

"I..." Dick's throat felt so dry, so  _tight,_ like it was closing up. His heart was pounding, his breathing speeding up. "I don't want to go in there. Let me go!"

Slade's smile grew slightly, deeply pleased. "Enter the room, little bird."

Dick's feet moved without his permission, carrying him forward. He shuddered as he passed under the doorway, walking into the center of the room.

The room was shaped like an octagon, the door he'd walked through making up about two thirds of one wall. The walls, while not mirrors, were slightly reflectively, giving the impression of being surrounded by people, vague outlines like shadows.

Slade stood in the doorway, arms crossed loosely over his chest, and watched Dick's reactions.

"Is it just fear, Dick?" the mercenary asked in a deceptively soft voice. "Is it just a  _feeling_ this place draws out? Or is there any memory attached? How deeply have you repressed this?"

Dick squeezed his eyes shut. "No, no I don'tI want to leave, please let me out, I don't-"

"Do you even understand why you hate this place so much? Do you understand where you _are_ right now? How much time you spent here?"

_So bright so loud so overwhelming-_

_So dark so quiet so empty-_

"What is this place?" Dick whispered.

_How are you doing, little bird?_

_Please, let me out. I can't...I don't..._

"What do you remember?"

_So thirsty so hungry so tired-_

_So much light so much darkness so much pain so much loneliness-_

Dick opened his eyes and set his jaw. "What is this place?" he repeated, his voice a demand.

Slade watched him for another few moments, then strolled inside, uncrossing his arms and tucking his hands into his pockets. He circled Dick, keeping near the walls, his pace unhurried.

"You called it the White Room," Slade said. "It was your fear, in the beginning." His lips twitched.  _"Don't put me back in the White Room, Sir, please,"_ he mocked, and then chuckled, shaking his head. "This, pretty bird, is where I broke you."

_So bright so loud so overwhelming-_

_So dark so quiet so empty-_

"What do you mean by that?" Dick asked, and was deeply impressed by the fact that he kept his voice from shaking.

"Didn't you ever wonder how I'd managed to brainwash you? I mean," he breathed a laugh, "it's not exactly something that happens in a single afternoon, kid. No, I planned this for almost a  _year_ before actually taking you."

There was...so much to unpack in that statement. He had so many questions, and he was barely holding his panic and desperation at bay. He picked a question at random and started there.

"A year?" he asked. "But there was no way you could've known I'd become part of a team, not that early on."

Slade rose an eyebrow at him. "What does your team have to do with this?" Dick frowned. Slade snorted and stopped walking, turning to face Dick head on, posture so damn relaxed. "Oh, pretty bird, brainwashing you had nothing to do with that team of yours. I mean, it was certainly a fantastic asset when you  _did_ break into Cadmus with your friends, but my plans for you were big before that team formed."

Dick shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut again. He wanted to leave this room. He wanted to have this conversation absolutely anywhere other than this horrible,  _horrible_ place.

"I don't understand," Dick said hoarsely.

"Do you remember when we first met?" the mercenary asked, what seemed like a sudden shift of topic.

And really, how could he forget something like that? He'd only been Robin for about a year at that point, absolutely loving the life. A young hero had just popped up in Star City, supposedly inspired by the fact that Robin existed, and Dick had felt on top of the world, emboldened by the fact that another hero existed simply because he did.

_(It was the first young hero to appear because of the Boy Wonder, but he wasn't the last. Robin was responsible for creating more sidekicks and teen vigilantes than he would ever actually understand. He was the first, after all. He showed the world what they were capable of. If nothing else, Dick had certainly left his mark on the heroing community.)_

It might've made him a little cocky, and he'd gotten so used to the criminals and villains of Gotham that when faced with a mercenary such as Deathstroke, he'd been painfully outclassed.

He'd been cocky, and gotten his ass handed to him. The only reason Slade hadn't killed him was because of Batman's timely interference.

And  _fuck,_ Bruce had grounded Dick for three weeks after that fight to teach him a lesson about getting overconfident around unknown players. And it's not like Bruce was wrong at allDick knew better than to treat unfamiliar hostiles like he would known entities. He'd learned from the experience of course; he hadn't make the same mistake again.

But that fight with Deathstroke...He'd lasted longer than the mercenary had thought he would've, Dick was pretty sure. After a little while it had almost felt like Slade was almost...having fun, maybe. Amused, at the very least. Even a little impressed.

And then, right before the merc left, Deathstroke had looked at Robin and said,  _"You've got some serious potential, kid; let me know if you ever want more than the bat's weak teachings. You could be something."_

Then he'd laughed at Dick's response of,  _"I already am."_

"Of course," Dick said dully. "It's hard to forget a fight that had me forcibly bedridden for two days."

Slade chuckled. "Yeah, I didn't take it easy on you then, and I haven't since. But I bring it up because that was the day I decided I wanted you by my side. It's rare that I consider people worth my time, and you had such a natural giftthere were moves you did that the Bat certainly hadn't taught you, or if he had you completely made your own, and it was impressive. You were such a tiny little thing, and yet you landed some hits on me.  _Me._ It was impressive."

"I had a great teacher," Dick snarked. "Batman could kick your ass any day of the week."

Slade rolled his eye. "Don't over inflate. Wayne's one of the best, but don't start thinking that he's better than  _me._ Your old man and I have had some legendary fights over the years, and he definitely didn't always come out on top.

"But the Bat's not important," Slade continued, waving a hand dismissively. "I'm simply showing that me taking you had nothing to do with getting an inside man on your little  _team,_ and everything to do with having an ace in my back pocket when it came to you, kid. You founding that team ended up making me a lot of money, but it had nothing to do with  _them_ and everything to do with  _you."_

"Is that supposed to make me feel special?" Dick snarled.

Slade shrugged a shoulder, uncaring. "Maybe. I don't really care either way. I have you, don't I? Back here." He waved a hand, indicating the room, drawing Dick's attention firmly back to where they were. His heart sped up again.

"Why are we in this room?" Dick demanded, but this time his voice shook slightly. "You've already retriggered my conditioning, so why the hell _am I here?"_ He was shouting by the end, he knew, but he wanted to leave so fucking badly.

"Because they got inside your  _head,_ pretty bird." Slade's tone was soft, almost  _comforting,_ but his blue eye was glacial cold. "They used my trigger words and fucked you up, and then the Martian dug around and made it all worse. We need to close that loophole, Dick; I don't want Batman to be able to say the magic words and make you listen to him again."

_Little bird, complete mission._

"He'll still beat you," Dick breathed, his eyes sliding shut. "In the end, he'll  _always_ beat you, they  _all_ will. My siblings are going to be coming after you full force, and they  _will_ rescue me. No matter what shit you pull with my mind, it won't last."

He was trying to convince himself as much as he was saying it to Slade. He had so much faith in his family. He was so terrified of there being nothing they could do.

Dick heard Slade take a few steps closer until he was right in front of the young hero. Slade leaned in, his lips going to brush against Dick's ear, and then he said, "Little bird, stop breathing."

And Dick did.

Slade wrapped an arm around Dick's waist, pulling their bodies flush together. Dick could barely feel it, too focused on the fact that he  _literally wasn't breathing._

"This, pretty bird," Slade murmured, breath hot against Dick's ear, "is why they won't win. Your body is mine, your mind is mine, your  _soul_ is mine. You belong to me, Dick. You have from the moment I brought you here. And with a little bit of work, I'll make sure Wayne can't weasel his way back in."

Dick's chest was starting to burn. He could hold his breath for a whilepart of Bruce's training long agobut there was a difference between purposefully holding your breath and having the ability to breathe taken away.

He reached up a hand, tugging at Slade's short hair.

Slade chuckled, a deep rumble against his body, and then drew back slightly. "Something you need, kid?"

Dick bared his teeth, hatred boiling his blood. Was this psychopath going to make him beg to  _breathe?_ Was that really where they were?

Going by the expectant,  _smug_ look at the mercenary's face, that was exactly where they were.

His chest was on fucking  _fire._

He held out as long as he could, black spots dancing in his vision, head swimming, before he croaked a desperate,  _"Please."_

A moment of silence, then- "Breathe, little bird."

Dick gulped in air, his knees buckling. Slade let him slide to the floor, chest heaving as he stayed on his hands and knees. He sucked in breaths greedily, unconcerned with anything going on around him. He didn't bother to pull away when Slade knelt beside him, a hand moving to stroke through his hair.

"There you go," Slade cooed. "There you go."

When Dick got himself back under control, he sat back on his heels, pulling out of Slade's hold. Slade smirked and let him go, tilting his head. "I'm going to leave you in here now, pretty bird."

_Dark-silent-iwanttogohome-where'sbrucewhyisn'thehere-whyhasn'thenoticedi'mgone-whatdoessladewantfromme-whywon'theletmeout-whyishekeepingmeinhere-whatisthegoal-_

_Bright-loud-idon'tunderstand-whatisthisroom-whydoesitkeepchanging-pleaseiwanttoleave-ican'tdowhathesays-hewantssomethingfromme-whatisit-maybeifisayyeshe'llletmego-_

_Are you ready, little bird?_

_I don't understand what you want from me._

_Hm. A little longer, then._

_No, no! No, please!_

"This is where you broke me," Dick said numbly, blinking at the now-familiar walls. Fractured memories were coming back to him, repressed and suppressed for so long.

This was where Slade kept him in the beginning. A chain around his wrists. Switching between sensory deprivation and sensory overload. And then, after so long of that, of isolation, confusion, and painthen, withholding food and requesting small concessions for a snack or a drink of water.

_("Just tell me your favorite dessert, little bird, and you can have this bottle of water. That's not so bad, is it? Just your favorite dessert.")_

_("I'll give you a bowl of warm soup if you tell me the name of your butler. That's public knowledge, isn't it, little bird? You're not betraying anybody.")_

Dick had been scared and alone and deprived of stimulation then overloaded with it. He was tired and young and desperate and touch-starved and Slade broke down his walls, broke him down, fractured him in pieces and then he...

He did something. He...that's when the real brainwashing took place, after he'd primed Dick's brain, after he'd made him weak and desperate. But Dick for the life of him couldn't actually remember what that entailed.

"It is," Slade agreed.

"But  _how?"_ Dick demanded, turning to look at the mercenary.

Slade rose a mocking eyebrow. "I would assume you would understand-"

"No I get what  _torture_ is," Dick snapped. "Solitary confinement, bargaining, sensory messing, the whole nine yardswhat I mean is that that takes _time._ II remember being in this-" he shuddered, "-place for such a long,  _long_ time. But Bruce never acted like I'd vanished for  _months_ so I justI don't understand how you did this. I can't...it doesn't make  _sense."_

But Slade just smiled.

"Good thing we have all the time in the world now, then, hmm?" he murmured, standing and heading towards the door. "I'll see you in a few days, pretty bird."

"No!" Dick shouted, heart pounding. He jerked to his feet, turning to follow Slade out the door, but the mercenary was faster and Dick reached the doorway just in time for the door to slide shut between them, sealing in place.

"No," Dick repeated, voice no more than a whisper.

Then the lights went out, leaving Dick alone in pitch black darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok the plan for this is still 3 chapters, but it might end up being 4 instead. I thought I'd planned this all out well, but then a scene in this chapter grabbed ahold of me and demanded I go a bit more in-depth, so I didn't reach something I thought I was going to here. I'm self-aware enough to know that that will probably happen again.
> 
> Suppose we'll see :)
> 
> As ever, I hope you enjoyed!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks to the delightful Anons on tumblr who "threatened" me into continuing working on my WIPs, including this one.
> 
> Happy New Year everybody :)

Slade spent a lot of money on the technology that built the White Room.

He knew what he wanted the instant he met Robin. Seeing the boy fight, how unafraid he was in face of his certain defeat, the potential to become something great, and, yes, his already beautiful featureshe knew he wanted Robin at his side. He knew it would be hard to corrupt the boy, but he could do it.

It wasn't until almost twelve months later that he knew exactly  _how_ he would get the boy, and began planning.

It took some time to work out the kinks, to get the materials and perfect the process, to consult various experts in various fields (and then quickly and quietly kill them so that there were no witnesses to his plan). It cost _quite_ a lot of money, but Slade didn't care at allhe knew what he wanted, and he was going to do this _right._

And do it right he did. Robin was his.  _Dick Grayson_ was his. For an entire year,  _his,_ despite the fact that Batman and the others seemed to believe it was only seven months. And it would've kept going on if his greed hadn't taken over, if he hadn't wanted the money Lex Luthor and his  _Light_ had been offering, the power that came with having such powerful beings needing  _his_ aid. He let it get the best of him. He let it expose what he'd done.

And in the end, that's what lost him Robin.

But he planned, and he plotted, and he  _watched,_ and he knew he could do it again. Better this timehe didn't need to have the conditioning split Dick, he didn't need to keep sending the boy back to his father none the wiser. No, Dick could be  _all his_ this time. A few ajustments to the room Dick hated so deeply and it would be done.

And  _oh,_ but it was glorious. His pain, his fear, his confusion. He knew his boy, he knew how to break him, had done it once before.

And doing it again was  _intoxicating._

* * *

Everything was a blur.

His body was not his own, his mind was not his own, his soul was not his own. All of that belonged to Slade.

Butno. No, he was his own person. He had a life, a family, friends. He was a superhero. He was a son. He was a brother. He was a gymnastics instructor. He was  _his own person._

"This again, little bird?"

Hehe was his ownhe

"You need to let that thought go."

He was a tool, a weapon. He existed to serve his master. The life he lived was a falsehood. He was where he was supposed to be now. With Slade. With Slade. With Slade. Home.

No, it _No._

Everything was a blur.

He'd been there a long time, he knew that much. It was bringing back awful memories, things he'd long forgotten. Being in this place, in this room where time had no meaning, with this demon of a man, and he didn't  _understand,_ it didn't make sense, he just wanted to  _go home._

"You are home, Richard."

He belonged to Slade. Bruce didn't matter. Jason didn't matter. Tim didn't matter. Damian, Cassandra, Stephanie, Alfred. They were nothing. They meant  _nothing._ He was where he was meant to be now. He'd been so stupid for ten years. Nothing could compare to Slade. This was where he was meant to be. This was home. This was

Everything hurt. Everything was a blur.

"How are you doing, little bird?"

He belonged to Slade.

"Ah, very good."

He  _belonged_

Yes,  _yes,_ good. He wanted to be good, that's all. He just needed to be good, and everything would be okay. His master would take care of him. His master would direct him.

Body, mind, soul. He washe was

Broken. He felt  _broken,_ like he was being split apart, like he couldn't trust himself, like he could never  _trust himself._

When was the last time he'd truly trusted himself, though? Always so afraid that he wasn't alone in his mind. Always so afraid that something would kick in, and he'd hurt his friends, his family. Even when Jason was actively trying to kill him, Dick kept such a close watch on himself, because he couldn't, _he couldn't,_ not again, couldn't hurt one of them again, anyone he loved. He didn't trust himself, he  _couldn't_ trust himself

But that was okay. It didn't matter. He was Slade's. Slade was his master. Trusting himself didn't matter, he only had to trust Slade.

_No._

"Why are you doing this?" Dick asked the Void around him. His throat was sore from screaming. "You have me already, you  _have me,_ please just leave me some of myself-"

There was no  _himself._ There was no him, not without Slade. Everything he was belonged to Slade. He had no right to demand anything.

"Oh, look at you, pretty bird. Absolutely divine. You're so close."

"Please, I just-"

_Just want to be me. Just want to serve you. Just want to go home. Just want to be good for you._

Everything was _everything was_

"Please," he sobbed. "No more."

A hand cupped his cheek, he leaned into the contact desperately, _Master, Sir, I'm yours, all of me_

"Sh, sh, shh. See? Everything's okay. Just breathe. That's right, just like that. Good boy."

Yes.  _Yes._ He was loyal, he was  _good,_ he was Slade's, it was so simple, why was he fighting? Why would he ever fight? Mind, body, soul, he belonged to his master.

Bruce was nothing. They were all  _nothing._

"Don't think of them, little bird. My pretty bird. Think of me."

Always.  _Always._ Only Slade. Only ever Slade. His master. Why did he want anything else? Why would he  _possibly_ want to ever  _be_ anything else? No, never again. This was all he needed. This is all he would ever need. He lived for Slade. He belonged to Slade. He was loyal. He wanted to be good.

"Perfect, Richard. Absolutely perfect."

* * *

When Tim first started as Robin, Dick was his teacher.

Bruce was...broken, at the time. He wasn't in the right mindset to be training anybody new, but that was okay. That was why Tim was there, after all. To curb Bruce's darkness in the wake of Jason's death.

So those first few months as Robin, and the few months of learning beforehandTim's main source of (non-violent) company had been Dick. He'd gotten to know the man he'd idolized as a kid, come to view him as family faster than he thought possible. Bruce became his father later on, and Alfred his grandfather, but _Dick_ was his brother before anything else.

And Tim paid attention. Tim watched, and learned, and put pieces together. He knew something was wrong with Dick, that something had happened to the elder vigilante, but he'd never pressed. He hadn't felt like it was his place in the beginning, and then by the time he felt comfortable enough to ask about the faint scars on Dick's forearms, enough time had passed that Tim no longer thought it would be appropriate.

Looking back, Tim wished he'd asked. Not to pry, but to open the door a little, to show Dick that he could talk to him, if he wanted to. Maybe Dick wouldn't have answered the question at all, maybe he would've brushed it off, but at least the question would've been  _asked._ The question would've been asked, and Dick would remember that Tim cared enough to want to know about his demons if he ever needed to talk.

Dick always took such great care of the rest of them. He was there for them when they needed a shoulder to lean on, or a willing ear to listen, or steady hands to clean up their wounds, both physical and emotional. Dick was  _always_ there for them, without fail. He bent himself backwards trying to be everything they could possibly need, and Tim had always been so grateful for him.

Had he ever shown that gratitude? He couldn't remember. He couldn't even remember, and now he wasn't sure if he'd ever get the chance.

It had been a month since Dick had been taken, and there was nothing.

No news, no sightings, no trail,  _nothing._

It was like Deathstroke had popped up out of nowhere, organized the capture, and then vanished right back into thin air. Tim was trying his hardest to locate them, tracking down _anyone_ who might have an idea, but everyone was just as at a loss as he was.

Superman and Superboy couldn't hear Dick. Martian Manhunter and Miss Martian couldn't feel his mind. Zatanna's locator spell failed. All of their contacts turned up not a single idea.

And Bruce...

Tim had seen Bruce after Jason died. He'd seen the desolation, the fury, the brutal intensity. This wasn't that, not quite, but Tim could see it startingBruce was so  _quiet,_ so cold, barely eating or sleeping as he searched relentlessly for his eldest son. If they didn't get Dick back...Well, Tim didn't think Bruce would recover. Not for a long time.

And even if (no, not if, this was a  _when_ situation) they got Dick home, he wouldn't be in one piece, not really. Damian might've been resolutely ignoring the impact this was going to have on Dick's psyche, trying to pretend everything was going to be fine as soon as they got Dick back, but Tim was realistic. The consequences for this were going to be far-reaching. You only had to look at the past ten years to know that.

"Anything?"

Tim glanced to the side, only his familiarity with Cass keeping him from jumping as she suddenly appeared. Her eyes were locked across the batcave on Bruce, who was hunched over at the computer, fingers moving rapidly across the keys.

Her question came, Tim knew, more out of a sense of starting a conversation with him than actual inquiryeveryone knew that the moment Bruce found something about Dick, they'd _know._

Tim shook his head all the same. "No. No leads, no nothing."

Cass hummed. "Need sleep," she said firmly.

Tim snorted and nodded. "Of course he does," he agreed, "but getting him to agree is next to impossible. Alfred's been the only one with any success in that regard lately, and still B isn't getting enough."

His sister shot him a look. "Meant  _you."_

Tim blinked at her. "Me? I'm fine, what are you talking about?" Cass' expression turned exasperated. Tim frowned right back. "I'm working. We need to find Dick," he stressed.

Cass set her jaw. "Yes," she agreed. "But you're no good to him like..." Then she gestured to all of him. Tim made an affronted noise. Cass smiled faintly and then moved to stand in front of him, putting her hands on his shoulders. "Dick needs us," she said softly. "But Dick needs  _us._ Understand?"

He did. He knew what Cass was saying. If they weren't the top of their game, if they weren't taking care of themselves to be in the best shape possible, then how were they going to save Dick? If they were all exhausted and running on empty, Deathstroke and Dick would wipe the floor with them. They needed to rest and eat. They needed to take care of themselves, the way Dick would be forcing them to if he was there.

"I understand," Tim said, equally soft. Some tension released from his sister's shoulders at the agreement. Tim's eyes strayed past her and towards Bruce. "What about B?"

Cass smirked and grabbed his hand, beginning to lead him out of the batcave. "Alfred," she said confidently. Then her smirk got a little wider, and she added, "Drugging this time. Solid eight hours."

Tim gaped at her, and then at Alfred as they passed each other on the stairs, Alfred caring a cup of tea on a tray. The butler rose an eyebrow at him and continued downward, calling out to Bruce as he went.

"Is this a mutiny?" Tim asked Cass with amusement. Probably the first bit of humor he'd felt in two weeks.

His sister snorted. "Mutiny implies Alfred not already in charge."

Tim grinned at that. He opened his mouth to reply when Superboy suddenly appeared, racing down the hall. He pulled up short when he saw them, and then rushed over quickly.

"Kon, what-"

"We have a lead," the clone said quickly. "Deathstroke's been spotted."

Tim's eyes went wide, and he looked at Cass, her expression equally startled. A month of nothing and they _finally had something._

"We better stop Alfred."

* * *

Dick swerved out of the way of the blade, twirling around to strike back. He dodged the kick aimed for his stomach, and the punch going for his head. The sword that attempting to trip him up was immediately blocked and the shot returned, making one of his opponents stumble instead. He followed it up with sharp kick, sending them to the ground, and then dodged a punch as the other opponent made their self known again.

They'd been at this for four hours, with only a five minute break at the two hour mark. His master had commanded him to fight, and so fight he did. It didn't matter that his opponents kept changing in and out. He didn't stop. He wouldn't stop, not until Slade told him he could.

They'd arrived at the League of Shadows four days ago. Ra's al Ghul hadn't been terribly pleased to see them, irritated with Slade for bringingwhat he calleda  _Bat_ into their ranks, and how this would bring trouble he did not care for, but it only took Dick kneeling before the demon's headat Slade's gesturefor the man to change his tune.

Ra's al Ghul was an egotist, no matter how he pretended not to be, and one obsessed with Bruce (no matter how he pretended not to be). Seeing one of Batman's most trusted bowing to him? It wasn't something the man would turn away.

Talia was taking pleasure from Dick's obedience. Slade had given him explicit instruction to do as he was told while under their roof (tempting the League into a fight would be counterproductive if it was avoidable), only second to Slade's orders themselves. So as long as Talia didn't tell him to do something Slade had forbidden, he was pretty much forced to obey her.

Dick  _hated_ it. Slade was his master, not an al Ghul. Not Damian's mother, not Bruce's rapist, not the demon's daughter. Being commanded to kneel before a woman like her set Dick's teeth on edge. Having her hand on his head like she  _owned_ him made his fingers itch for a blade.

And it wasn't like she actually cared about him, or even _liked_ him; she just liked having this power over someone she considered Bruce's. Dick wished she would get with the timeshe didn't belong to Bruce. He was _Slade's,_ now and always.

Dick struck out with his blade. His opponent countered, then swerved. Dick moved faster, tripping the man up. The man snarled, irritated, and got to his feet, striking again. Dick blocked.

To make matters even worse, Talia was  _clever,_ which meant she was good at finding loopholes. _Technically,_ Slade had only ordered him to refuse their commands if it went against something he had already said. Nowhere in that command had been for things Dick knew Slade wouldn't like, and yet hadn't been forbidden. Talia kept pushing those boundaries. And Dick couldn't do a thing to stop her.

Dick knew they were at the League of Shadows for more than just his training. There was something Slade needed from the al Ghuls, which meant Dick couldn't make any problems; he had to behave. He couldn't do anything to mess this up. Which meant he had to follow Talia's orders, and stay silent about it.

His kick connected solidly with his opponent's side, and the man went down again. Dick followed it up with a kick to his head, knocking the assassin unconscious, and winning Dick another match.

Dick turned towards where Slade had been standing, and waited for instructions. Would they go again? Four hours was a long time to be fighting extremely skilled people. Dick was exhausted. He would keep going if that was what his master wanted, but he wanted to bathe and sleep.

Slade gestured him over and Dick went, ignoring his twinging muscles. His master examined him for a few seconds, and then tutted. The disappointed sound hit Dick like a wound.

"Where is your head?" Slade asked. "You won, but you weren't focused. You know better than that; any moment a fight could turn out of your favor. Is this what the Bat taught you the last few years? That it's okay to allow your mind to wander during a battle?"

No, actually. Bruce probably would've lectured him much the same way.

"I'm sorry, Sir," Dick murmured, bowing his head.

Slade gripped his chin and pulled his head back up, forcing him to meet his gaze. The blue eye was sharp and suspicious. "What occupies your mind?" he asked, grip tightening on his chin.

 _Talia al Ghul, and how much of a bitch she is,_ Dick thought bitterly.

But Slade's purpose for being at the League of Shadows wasn't done yet. Speaking badly about Talia would just create strife between them all, would just stress his master out. He didn't want to be the cause of his master's stress. Even though he knew Slade would hate Talia's commands, he had to bite his tongue. It hadn't been forbidden. Slade needed this, whatever it was.

"Simply tired, Sir," Dick said. "The match was easy, I let myself drift, it won't happen again."

Slade's eye narrowed further, but before he could say anything else, the woman herself appeared at their side. She spared Dick barely a glance, turning her attention to Slade.

"My father has requested to speak with you," she told him, her tone almost bored. Her eyes flashed momentarily towards Dick. "Alone."

Slade nodded. "Get washed up," he told Dick. "We'll talk more later."

"Yes, Sir."

Dick left quickly, heading for their room, and set about getting a bath for himself, enjoying the way the warm water soothed his straining muscles. It had been a long day, and a long night before that, and a long few weeks before _that._ Everything ached.

When the water began to cool, Dick forced himself out, draining the water and drying off. He got dressed into simple sweatpants and a t-shirt, and then began stretching.

He'd only been at it for a few minutes when the door opened. He glanced up, expecting Slade, and then frowned when he saw it was Talia.

"These are Slade's quarters," Dick said. "You're supposed to knock."

Talia rose an eyebrow at him and strolled inside, shutting the door behind her. "I knew Slade was not in here; there was no reason to knock." Dick opened his mouth to retort, but she beat him to it, saying, "And you, Richard, do not count."

Dick narrowed his eyes at her. Oh, how he  _hated_ this woman.

"Why are you here?" he asked as she went over to the fireplace and sat down in the armchair there, posture as perfect as her status would demand. She picked up the book on the small table next to the chair, one Slade had been reading, and then opened it up. Dick wanted to bark at her not to touch his master's things.

Not that she hadn't already done that plenty.

"Come here, Richard," she ordered.

Dick bit his tongue against the urge to tell her to go fuck herself.

He did as he was bid, rising to his feet and walking over, then standing at her side as he waited for the command he knew was coming. Every time Slade wasn't around, she did this. Every fucking time.

"Kneel."

Once more, Dick did as he was bid, his hands clenched into fists where they rested on his knees.

Talia reached out and stroked her fingers through his hair when he was settled, and Dick's shoulders tensed even though he was expecting the touch. Her hand stilled after a few moments, resting tangled in his black locks, grip tight enough to be noticed but not quite enough to hurt.

Dick wanted to cut her hand off.

The sound of pages turning let him know that she'd turned her attention to the book, and that was that. Simply holding him in place at her feet as she did something else, like she had the right to do this to him. And he knew that  _she_ knew Slade would be pissed about this, about her touching what was his. That's why she did it when he was sure to be occupied for a while.

Her own quiet little power play. Disgusting.

But then, not even ten minutes later, the door opened again, and Slade entered. Dick's lips parted in surprise, and though Talia's expression and body language didn't shift at all, her fingers tightened in Dick's hair.

"Slade," she greeted, perfectly calm. "You're back early, I see."

His master examined them expressionlessly, blue eye cold. Dick knew him well enough to see the fury that rested beneath his stillness.

"What, exactly," Slade said lowly, "do you think you're doing, Talia?"

Talia made a dismissive sound and got to her feet, removing her hand from Dick's hair. Dick unconsciously relaxed a little as the unwanted touch left. Talia walked towards the door, not making any attempt to explain herself, and was forced to stop when Slade grabbed ahold of her arm just as she was about to pass him.

"Do this again," Slade told her dangerously, "and you will find out up close and personal why my reputation is what it is."

Talia's eyes narrowed into slits but she said nothing, jerking her arm from his grasp. Slade let her go after a moment, and turned his attention to the still kneeling Dick as the door shut behind the woman.

Dick cringed at the  _anger_ radiating off of his master, and held very still as Slade approached. The older man roughly grabbed his jaw, craning Dick's neck up at a painful angle. But Dick could barely feel it, too overcome by the anguish of having disappointed Slade. Slade was angry with him, he'd fucked up, how could he have done this to his master?

"No one touches you but me," Slade snarled.

"I'm sorry, Sir," Dick said immediately, forcefully, _desperately._ "I didn't want her to but she ordered me into place and you told me I had to follow all al Ghul orders unless they went against something you'd already said, and I knew you wouldn't like this but it didn't go against your commands, so I had to let it happen, I'm sorry, Sir, I'm so,  _so_ sorry-"

Dick's breaths were hitching by the end, and Slade shushed him, his grip gentling into a caress. Dick leaned into the touch, trying to control his breathing.

"Oh, little bird," Slade cooed. "I see how stressed this has made you. It's alright. I'll be more specific next time." He tilted Dick's head up, making him meet his gaze. "But there will still be a punishment for you keeping a secret from me, do you understand?"

"Yes, Sir," Dick agreed instantly, relief flooding through him. He could handle a punishment, Slade teaching him a lesson. As long as his master wasn't angry with him anymore, he could handle _anything._

"Good. Now come on, I think it's time we left."

* * *

 _"Check in,"_ Bruce's voice came through the comms, gruff and low.

 _"Nothing,"_ Tim said, voice no more than a whisper.

 _"Empty over here."_ Steph this time.

 _"Clear,"_ Superboy told them.

 _"Nada,"_ Cass said, followed by a dismissive click of Damian's tongue.

Jason clenched his hand more tightly around his gun and said, "Just a bunch of empty rooms so far."

They'd found Deathstroke's base by chance, a quick reported sighting that had drawn them quickly out for a chance at finding Dick. But so far, this complex was empty, Superboy reporting no heartbeats inside. In fact, they didn't even know if this was even an active base for Deathstroke, let _alone_ a regular onehe could've just been making a pit stop before moving on.

Jason was angry, and working very hard to keep it to himself. The other brats didn't need it, not now, not when they were all trying their best.

But it had been four weeks and five days and Dick was still missing, was still in the hands of the psychopathic Deathstroke. Was still being tormented and manipulated and hurt, and they had made  _no progress_ at all. Jason was pissed. At everything, and everyone. Including himself. Including Dick.

(Though he was trying really hard to let that last one go.)

He came across another door and threw it open, gun at the ready, but just like everywhere else, there was no one.

He moved on.

 _"Guys I found something kind of weird,"_ Tim said over the comm, and Jason could practically feel all of them perking up.  _"Come to my location."_

Jason pulled up Red Robin's GPS and made his way through the winding hallways. When he arrived, Tim and Bruce were both crowded around something on the wall, standing next to a metal door with no handle. Superboy was behind them, giving them their space, and the others hadn't yet shown up.

"What are we lookin' at?" Jason asked, approaching Tim and Bruce. Neither of them looked at him, but they did shift slightly to allow him to approach and see what they were examining. There was an electronic keypad, a simple one to nine plus zero, and above it was some sort of screen, lit up with diagrams that didn't make any sense to Jason on first glance.

"What is it?" he asked, sure that Tim probably had something of an answer for him by this point.

"A control panel," Tim told him, attention focused on the screen. Bruce tapped something and a menu of coding popped up, making both vigilantes grunt and lean forward a bit more to read it.

"Controlling what?" Jason prodded when no more information was forthcoming. He heard the others approaching. "Something in the room?"

"The room itself," Bruce said, voice showing his frustration. "It's complex machinery; I've seen tech like this, but never combined in the way it is. Every time part of it starts to make sense there's another aspect that throws our hypothesis off."

"Alright," Jason said slowly, looking over the metal door. Stainless steel, no handle, reflecting the vague shape of his appearance right back at him. "What's the current hypothesis, then?"

"See this, here?" Tim said, gesturing to part of the screen. Jason leaned in, examining what he was pointing at. "This indicates control over lights and sounds; the coding is similar to what one would use for torture, in overloading the senses. Or the opposite, for sensory deprivation."

Yeah, that...sounded about right.

Jason could picture putting a bullet in Deathstroke's head. It made him feel a little better.

"But this," Bruce continued, pulling up a separate diagram, "includes mathematics from quantum mechanics and analysis fitting with general relativity findings."

Jason translated that to regular people speak. "It's...messing with _time?"_

"I can't even begin to understand this power source," Bruce continued as if he hadn't spoken, pulling up something that appeared to be in another language, one Jason didn't recognize. "I'd call it magic, because it makes me think of Doctor Fate's energy output, but that's not quite right."

"Can you get it open?" Stephanie asked, gesturing towards the door. "Might help if we can get eyes on whatever this place is."

Tim nodded sharply in reply, started typing, and a minute later the door slid open with a hiss of air, disappearing into the wall. It was pitch black inside, and Tim's face scrunched up in a grimace before he tapped something else and suddenly the lights came on. Jason walked inside.

The room gave him a weird feeling. The walls, ceiling, and floor were all lit up and vaguely reflective, the octagonal shape of the room making it seem like Jason was surrounded by countless people shaped like shadows. In the center of the room were a pair of chains dangling down from the ceiling, ending in two open cuffs. Jason reached up to them, found that if his hands were trapped, he'd just be able to keep his feet firmly planted.

Dick, four inches shorter than him, would've been forced onto the balls of his feet and tiptoes at this height.

"Quite the unique cell," Superboy muttered as he entered, eyeing the walls with distaste. "I don't like it."

Jason wondered if it made the clone think of his own imprisonment years and years ago, but decided he didn't really care at the moment; he barely knew Superboy, and Dick was all that mattered at the moment.

"These panels," Jason said to himself, running a hand over one. "There's some kind of energy." He turned back towards the doorway and stepped out, looking at Bruce. "What was it you were saying about time?"

The older man opened his mouth to reply, but the lights went out, plunging them into darkness.

* * *

Bruce went still, hand straying automatically to his utility belt for a batarang. He heard Stephanie and Jason curse, heard the whisper of Damian drawing a weapon. The cell door had slammed shut with the lights, trapping Superboy inside, and as the world fell silent around them, the only noise was his fists pounding on the metal.

But Bruce knew something was going to happen; Deathstroke wouldn't have cut the power without a plan, without being ready to enact whatever it was.

"Night vision," Bruce instructed his kids as he switched his own on. He saw the others come into focus and follow the order, all of them relaxing ever-so-slightly as sight was restored. However, Stephanie, without a mask over her eyes, grumbled and ran her fingers over her utility belt to find the small night vision goggles packed there.

She had just turned them on when suddenly the lights came back on.

Everyone cried out and cringed, slamming their eyes shut. Bruce reached up quickly to switch off the night vision, fighting back the pain on his sensitive eyes, but before any of them could get their bearing, the attack came.

Barely able to see, fighting the highly trained Deathstroke and Dick was a challenge. They were ready for their opponents, that was for sure, taking advantage of the sightlessness and disorientation to take them down. Stephanie, Tim, and Damian were the first down, Stephanie and Damian by tranq darts, Tim by a heavy hit from a stun baton, falling to the ground with body still twitching.

Bruce took a few steps back to get some space, but Deathstroke suddenly moved with him, pressing the advantage and pressing him back, separating him from the sounds of fighting. It had to be Dick, didn't it? Dick, fighting his family.

"Hello, Wayne," Deathstroke greeted, satisfaction running through his voice. "Such a delight to see you again."

The mercenary might've had the upper hand to start with, but Bruce's sight was back now and the pain was gone, and he wasn't one to lie down and lose. He struck out, again and again, fury fueling each blow, righteously pleased every time he hit the bastard who'd stolen his son.

"Honestly, Batman," Deathstroke chuckled breathlessly, swerving out of the way of a punch and throwing his own in return, drawing his blade right after. "I think I've done you a favor."

Bruce couldn't say anything past the  _rage_ that comments lit in him, but he was sure Deathstroke could feel his fury through every strike.

"I mean it," Deathstroke told him,  _goaded_ him. "Dick was a fox in your hen houseyou should be relieved I showed him for what he truly was!"

"This is not what he is!" Bruce roared. "You corrupted him! Hurt him! Manipulated him! This is not him, and we  _will_ save him from you."

"Frankly, that's adorable," the mercenary said. "That you still believe that. I look forward to crushing that hope, Wayne. Preferably with my little bird standing above your cold corpse."

Bruce snarled and attacked.

He wasn't expected the kick to his back.

He stumbled and then turned it into a roll, whirling back around to face Deathstroke. Dick was standing with him now, tall and proud, gaze uncaring as he looked at Bruce. The Bat glanced behind himself, checking on his kids. Stephanie and Damian were still unconscious, but Tim was shakily pushing himself up, sucking in large gulps of air. Cassandra was kneeling over Jason, putting pressure on a stomach wound. Her leg was bent at a weird angle.

"You shouldn't have come here," Dick told him dispassionately. "There's nothing for you here."

Bruce checked his son over on instinct. He looked alright, physically, though he knew better than most how adept Dick was at hiding injuries. He was wearing Deathstroke's colors, which rankled something at Bruce's core just like it had a decade ago, and there were sword handles peaking over his shoulders. There was a knife strapped to one of his thighs, and a handgun to the other. He stood comfortably at Deathstroke's side, hand resting on the holstered gun.

"Do you know what that place is, Dick?" Bruce asked, nodding towards the cell they'd been examining only minutes before. "Do you understand what he's done to you?"

Dick looked at the doorway, gaze lingering for a few seconds. His expression remained cold and uninterested, but he swallowed heavily before he dragged his eyes back to Bruce.

"Stand down, Batman," Dick told him. "Pack up, go home. There's _nothing for you here."_

"It was torture, Dick," Bruce continued, not breaking eye contact. He could see Deathstroke watching him with vague, amused curiosity, and could feel Tim slowly bringing himself over to stand beside Bruce, but he kept his attention firmly on his eldest.

"Not just torture, though," Bruce continued, when Dick said nothing. "There are indications that the machinery messes with time inside the room; depending on the settings, the blink of an eye out here could be minutes in there. Minutes could become hours, days. Do you understand what that means for you?"

"You're wasting your breath, Wayne," Deathstroke chuckled, and Bruce snarled when the assassin wrapped an arm around Dick's waist, the younger man leaning into the touch without hesitation, some tension in his shoulders even  _relaxing._ "He's not  _yours."_

"Little bird, time to count sheep," Bruce said firmly, and got ready to move, waiting for the reaction he'd seen the last time that phrase had been said to Dick while brainwashed.

But

Dick's eye twitched, and  _nothing._

And a bit of Bruce's hope crumbled.

"Not this time, Wayne," Deathstroke purred, and pulled Dick more tightly against himself. Dick molded himself to the hold, held tilting back against the mercenary's shoulder, perfectly at ease. It also put him more bodily between Bruce and Deathstroke, an extra security measure by Deathstroke, Bruce was sure. "He's  _mine,_ now and always."

If the words didn't workif the words  _wouldn't work_ what was he supposed to do? What could he  _possibly_ do? How could he help his son, get him to safety? How could he be so completely useless in this moment?

"That's not true," Tim said. Bruce glanced at him; he was standing firm now, having shaken off the jolts from before, and his chin was raised in determination. "Dick's his own person, and can make his own choices. He doesn't  _belong_ to you."

Deathstroke smirked at them, and then tilted his head and whispered something in Dick's ear, pressing a kiss to his jaw after he finished speaking. Dick drew the handgun from his thigh, making Bruce and Tim tense, and then pressed it again his own head.

Bruce felt his heart  _stop._

"Get this through your  _head,_ Wayne," Deathstroke sneered, and one of his hands drifted downward, resting possessively on Dick's hip, large fingers brushing across his crotch.

The rage burned in Bruce's chest, hot and wild. The implications of that touch- "Get your hands  _off of him-"_

"He is _mine,"_ Deathstroke spoke over him. "Accept it, and move on! If I told him to, he'd pull the trigger on himself right now, wouldn't you, pretty bird?"

"Yes, Sir," Dick said breathlessly. And he cocked the fucking gun.

"Richard," someone said, voice trembling, and Bruce realized that Damian was now awake. Barely, still unable to do more than push himself up onto his forearms, but his eyes were open and fixed on Dick. "Stop this."

Dick's gaze locked onto the young boy, his eyebrows furrowing, but his hand around the gun didn't waver, and he made no attempt to pull himself out of Deathstroke's intimate touch.

"Dick," Cassandra added softly, still crouched over Jason. He seemed stable now, but with the helmet Bruce couldn't tell if he was conscious or not. "You're family. No need for this. We love you."

"Slade's my family," Dick said firmly, with the same kind of conviction that he'd once used to convince Bruce to give Jason another chance, to lighten up on Damian when he doubted him, to rein in his anger when it came to Stephanie's mistakes. It was Dick's voice, his protective voice, and hearing it about  _Deathstroke_ made nausea churn in Bruce's gut.

"Deathstroke's your captor," Tim corrected. "He kidnapped you,  _brainwashed_ youDick, that isn't family."

"Your opinion means nothing to me," Dick said, his lips curling into something of a smile.  _"You_ mean nothing to me." Then he tilted his head up slightly, looking at Deathstroke. His expression was devoted and fond. "I think it's time for us to go."

"Agreed," the mercenary said. He whispered something else in Dick's ear, and Dick nodded, then leaned into the kiss Deathstroke pressed against his throat. Bruce bared his teeth.

Deathstroke stepped back then, away from Dick, but Dick's aim of the gun at his own head didn't waver. "See you sometime, Wayne," Deathstroke said, dark humor thrumming in his voice, and then he was gone, vanishing down the hallway.

Bruce twitched, desperate to give chase, but remained frozen when Dick tapped his finger against the side of the gun as a reminder of the threat.

"Stay where you are," Dick told him, and sounded almost  _amused._ "I hope the threat would be obvious about what I'll do if you make any attempt to go after Slade."

"How can you think he cares about you?" Tim yelled. "He's commanded you to shoot yourself if we act out, how is that  _caring?"  
_

"You'll never understand," Dick scoffed, "so I'm not going to bother explaining our bond."

"Because you can't," Bruce said sadly. "Because you  _can't_ explain your bond. Because it's not  _real."_

It was pointless, and Bruce knew it. Dick couldn't be reasoned with like this. It wasn't his fault. His son was hurting and breaking and it wasn't Dick's fault but Bruce just wanted to grab him and shake him until he saw reason.

"Why are you here, Bruce?" Dick asked, shaking his head. "I'm not yours, you don't own me. There's nothing for you here."

"I'm here because I love you," Bruce said, voice thick with emotion. He didn't say those words easily, but if there was ever a time- "I'll always be here, because you're my son, Dick."

"No I'm not."

Bruce blinked. "What? Of _course_ you are-"

"No," Dick disagreed, shaking his head. _"Jason_ is your son, you adopted him five months after he started living with you. _Tim_ is your son, you adopted him the instant his parents were gone. _Damian_ is your son, he's even blood. But me?" He shook his head again. "I was only ever your ward, and now that I'm legally an adult I'm not even that. I was never your _son,_ Bruce. You never wanted me to be."

Each word was like a knife to Bruce's heart, cutting deeper and deeper with every syllable. Was that truly what Dick thought all these years? Was that why Dick thought he’d never offered to adopt him? Because he didn’t _want_ him? Had Bruce been so awful at communicating his feelings that his eldest actually thought he was unwanted?

"Dick, that's not-"

"It's okay, B," Dick interrupted, "you don't have to explain yourself. It doesn't matter anymore. I was the learning ground for you to get the parenting thing down. I was the practice dummy. And that's okay. You have your children, and I'm where I belong now."

 _"No,"_ Bruce said forcefully. "No, you most certainly are _not_ where you’re supposed to be. Slade Wilson brainwashed you, tortured youthat is not where you belong. You are my son, no matter what some stupid documents say. We are your family."

Dick smiled, a rueful little thing. "So easy for you to pretend now, isn't it? Is this really the best you can do? You think that spewing some bullshit about me being your kid will break through to me? You mean _nothing_ to me, Bruce, and that's such a relief because I've spent _years_ thinking you were everything to me while I was nothing to you. I don't have to feel that way anymore."

How had Bruce failed so thoroughly as a father?

Suddenly Dick was in motion, and Bruce braced himself, but all Dick did was grab something from his belt and attach it to his face

"Hold your breath!" Bruce shouted to the others, spotting the rebreather Dick was now using, but Deathstroke and Dick must've timed everything because the hall was already flooding, too fast for all of them to avoid a lungful of the colorless, odorless gas.

The last thing Bruce saw as his vision faded to black was his son walking away from him once more.

* * *

Dick pulled the cloth up over his mouth and nose, the black fabric melding with the domino over his eyes and masking most of his face. He ran a hand through his hair, his gloves catching at the small tangles, and waited for Slade.

His master was on the other side of the room, putting his armor on piece by piece, smoothly adorning himself with weapons. When he was done, the only missing piece the mask he held in his hand, he looked over to Dick and examined him with a critical eye.

Then he gave a single, approving nod. Dick beamed beneath his mask.

"All set, little bird?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Good."

Slade headed for the door, pulling on his mask as he did so, and Dick fell into step behind him.

In all honesty, Dick was anxious. The past two months had gone relatively wellother than the incident with Talia and the  _incident_ with Bruce and Co a month agoand he was worried that this was going to change things. They'd gone on missions, they'd spent some time training with other masters, but this would be the first time in ten years Dick actually stood before other villains at Slade's side.

It wasn't a big deal. It  _really_ wasn't.

But somehow going to meet with Lex Luthor, Vandal Savage, and Black Manta felt different than standing in Ra's al Ghul's throne room and asking for a teacher. That was removed from the front lines, just a deal with the League of Shadows in Nanda Parbat, their own land.  _This_ was different.

It totally wasn't a big deal. But...

But he could picture Lex Luthor in his head, the last time they'd seen each other, the superior look on his face as he said _I don't intend to wait around here for you to get out your repressed trauma by beating us up._ The smug curl of Sportsmaster's smirk next to him, calling out  _little bird._

He was angry. He was angry at Luthor and at Crock for having witnessed his lowest point a decade ago, and he was angry with Slade for putting him in that position to begin with, and he was angry that he was about to enter a room and have to bite his tongue and simply  _take_ whatever pompous, snarky remarks Luthor wanted to throw at him for no good reason.

Dick blinked, startled with himself. What was he...? How could he...?

Angry with Slade? No, that wasn't right. He wasn't angry with his master, that was ridiculous. And if his master wanted him to meet with Luthor and the others then he would, and not whine like a child about whatever Luthor might do during the meeting. It wasn't his place to question Slade's wishes.

So why did he feel so...?

"Richard."

Dick flinched, head jerking up. They'd stopped walking, and they weren'tthis wasn't the safehouse they'd been in only moments ago. This was a high-class hallway, all dark wood and shining glass, leading to a pair of large double doors. Slade was standing in front of him, his bulk dwarfing Dick easily, and his mask had been rolled up so that Dick could see his face. He was frowning down at him, and Dick wanted to soothe however he could, but he was so confused; he didn't understand where they were, how they'd gotten there.

"I..."

"Focus," Slade ordered, and Dick responded instinctively, straightening his spine and lifting his chin to lock eye contact with his master more firmly. He focused on the ice blue of his one eye, the frown lines on his forehead, the purse of his lips. He focused on his master, because he'd been given an order, and he'd never disobey.

"Sir," Dick said firmly. "I'm sorry, Sir."

"What happened?"

 _I don't know,_ Dick thought helplessly.  _I don't know how we got here._

He wouldn't lie to his master. And he wouldn't keep secrets from him, not ever again; he learned his lesson after Talia  _(the punishment was fair, but it was a punishment nonetheless, and it hurt and it made sure he'd never forget and he apologized and now-)_

"I don't remember how we got here," Dick murmured. "The last thing I remember is us leaving the safehouse."

Slade lifted his hand, cupping the side of Dick's neck, and Dick leaned into the touch, some of the tension in his body melting out of him. Everything would be okay; his master had him, and everything would always be okay as long as they were together.

"Alright," Slade said evenly, and used his free hand to pull his mask back down into position. "It's time to go. I'll tell Luthor something came up."

Dick nodded his agreement, letting out a relieved breath. Slade had him, and would fix whatever was wrong. It would all be okay. They'd fix his head. Everything would be just fine.

Slade's hand dropped, and just when he'd taken a step away to walk around Dick and back the way they'd come, the pair of double doors at the end of the hall opened, revealing Vandal Savage and Luthor further behind him, sitting at a large desk.

"Deathstroke," Savage acknowledged respectfully, and it was only because Dick knew his master so well that he saw the twitch of Slade's fingers and read irritation. "We've been waiting for you."

Slade headed towards the doors, strides smooth and purposeful as if he hadn't been planning on leaving only thirty seconds ago, and Dick fell into step right behind him, footsteps light and silent.

"Ah, Mr. Wilson, good to see you again," Luthor greeted as they entered what appeared to be his office. It was large and screamed wealth, with one wall made entirely of glass, by which stood Black Manta. It was a nice view of Metropolis, Dick had to admit.

Luthor's eyes slid to Dick, and Dick wanted to slap the satisfied smirk off his face. "Can I assume that the presence of your accomplice means you've regained yourwhat was it? _little bird?"_

Dick really,  _really_ wanted to hit him. Or maybe draw his sword and simply run him through. Both would be satisfying.

"Charming as ever, Luthor," Slade drawled, strolling over to the desk and then sitting down in the chair across from Luthor like he didn't have a care in the world. Dick noted the tension in his shoulders.

Dick walked forward as well, keeping his eyes on Savage until the man was again in Slade's line of sight, moving around the desk to stand by Luthor, leaning against the wall behind him. Black Manta didn't leave the glass wall, but he did turn to face them, leaning back against the glass. Dick took his place just over Slade's right shoulder, folding his hands behind his back.

Luthor continued to smirk superiorly at him. Dick was glad his mask covered his sneer.

"Hello again, Nightwing," the billionaire greeted, head dipping slightly in mock respect. "How good it is to see you amongst our ranks once again."

"It's Renegade, actually," Dick corrected, keeping his tone breezy and nonconfrontational by sheer force of will.

"Of course," Luthor agreed graciously. "You simply change sides so rapidly it's hard to keep track."

"If we could get to business?" Savage prompted, sounding bored with Luthor's theatrics.

"Agreed," Slade said shortly. His fingers drummed once against his thigh; he wanted to run Luthor through with a sword, too. "I came here because you said we had something important to discuss. What is it?"

"Should he really be here for this?" Black Manta asked before an explanation for their presence could be put forth, black helmet tilting towards Dick. "You joke, Luthor, but this boy is one of the most well-respected heroes in the business; I find his sudden change of heart somewhat _unbelievable."_

Dick clenched his jaw, angered by the doubt in his loyalty to Slade, but said nothing, waiting for what his master would do.

Slade tilted his head, looking Manta over, and didn't take his eyes off the Atlantean as he said, "Headshot."

The gun was in Dick's hand and aimed before Manta could even begin to shape the word _What,_ and he pulled the trigger without hesitation.

Manta jerked back under the force, his armor hitting the glass wall with a heavy thud. In the corner of his eye Dick could see Luthor get to his feet, but he kept his attention on Black Manta as the man slide down the wall, legs giving out.

He wasn't dead; the armor of his helmet was strong enough to have saved his life, but the bullet  _had_ gone straight through and hit him. The helmet had slowed and protected, had done its job to ensure Manta survived such a shot, but if the helmet had been even the  _slightest_ bit thinner, the Atlantean would be dead.

Dick lowered the gun and tucked it back in its holster. He worked on calming the racing of his heart, ignoring how tight his chest was.

If the helmet had been the  _slightest bit thinner_

"Seems you survived," Slade commented, uncaring, as Manta pushed himself into a seated position against the glass, arms shaking. "How lucky for you." He turned his attention back to Luthor and Savage. "Evidence enough for you? Or should I whip out my cock and have him moan around it like a whore? Would that satisfy you? Or can you stop _wasting my time_ and tell me why we're _here?"_

Luthor, to his credit, seemed perfectly calm and unaffected when he said, "To business, then."

Dick let the conversation that followed wash over him; he was not important here, just here to watch Slade's back and probably act as something of a trophy, so he kept watch of the three villains and tried to not let himself linger over the image of Black Manta's head slamming back against the glass, the sound his helmet made as it split under the force of Dick's bullet.

Just the slightest bit thinner, and a man would be dead by his hand. He would've killed Kaldur's father.

 _That doesn't matter,_ he reminded himself derisively, barely keeping himself from rolling his eyes. Who gave a shit if Tempest's father died? It wasn't like they were in any way on speaking terms, and even if they  _were,_ it wouldn't be Dick's problem. If Slade wanted him to finish the job, he would put another bullet in Manta's helmet, and this time it would kill. The only thing that mattered in the world was his master's wishes. Not whether or not some hero would be _sad_ about something.

"A pleasure as always, Luthor," Slade drawled as he stood, drawing Dick's attention back to him. Slade's nod to Savage was far more respectful than his tone with Luthor, and he didn't spare a glance for Black Manta, heading for the door. Dick followed.

"Renegade," Savage said after they'd taken no more than a few steps, and Dick paused, glancing over his shoulder to the scarred man. "Come here for a moment."

Dick narrowed his eyes suspiciously, and then looked to his master for instruction. Slade was watching Savage, but he glanced at Dick and flicked his fingers forward, permission to go.

So, Dick did, cautiously making his way over to Savage. He folded his hands behind his back to keep them from fidgeting, and held his chin high as he came to a stop in front of Savage.

Savage's hand lifted into the air between them. "May I?" he asked, gesturing towards Dick's face.

Dick barked an incredulous laugh when he realized the man meant his mask. "No, you may not."

But Savage simply shifted his gaze over Dick's shoulder to look at Slade, raising an eyebrow in question.

"Go ahead," Slade agreed, and Savage inclined his head in thanks, reaching towards Dick face.

Dick jerked back out of range and whirled around to face Slade. His heart was pounding in his chest, adrenaline flooding his veins as a fight or flight response lit up inside him. "Master?" he questioned incredulously.

"You don't require more anonymity than me," Slade told him. His tone was perfectly calm and at ease, but his blue eyes was narrowed at Dick. It made his pulse thrum even faster. He was making his master irritated, how could he _why_ would he-? "Why do you want to preserve your identity amongst allies, little bird?"

"Because-" Dick began to say, but the blasphemous words died on his tongue.  _Because if they know my identity it won't be hard to figure out everyone else's._

That didn't matter.

And this...

This was a test.

The realization hit him like a sack of bricks, almost knocking the wind right out of him. Savage wasn't like Black Manta, wouldn't do something as stupid as him, but this was a simple test to see his real priorities and Slade had given the okay. His master had approved this test.

His  _master_ was  _testing him._

The idea of failing a test from his master made Dick feel physical ill.

Dick turned back to Savage, calm as anything, and pulled down the bottom half of his mask himself, then removed the domino. He tucked the domino into his belt and then rose his face again, proud and unafraid and  _loyal._

If they asked him for the batcave's security codes in that moment, he'd give them to them.

Savage smiled at him and hummed, satisfied. He took a step back, and then another, scanning Dick in his entirety. "A _pretty_ thing, isn't he."

Dick fought the urge to move back to his master, to seek reassurance.

"A  _famous_ one at that," Luthor added, and when Dick looked at him, he looked nothing short of the cat who caught the canary. "Richard Grayson, Bruce Wayne's eldest. We've met."

"We have," Dick agreed tightly. "On multiple occasions. My favorite was the time where my team and I raided one of your illegal warehouses and cleared you out and set you back a few million dollars, and then a few hours later I shook your hand at a gala and told you I liked your tie."

Luthor narrowed his eyes, thoroughly displeased, his lips curling back. But Slade simply laughed, and when Dick looked at him he could picture the smirk beneath his mask.

"If that's all gentlemen," Slade said, and gestured towards the door, "then we'll be on our way."

Dick took the cue easily, striding over to his master and then out into the hallway after him. A gesture from Slade had Dick pulling his domino out of his belt and putting both parts of his mask back into place.

They went up a flight of stairs instead of down, going out onto the roof where a helicopter was waiting for them.  _Must be how we got here,_ Dick realized.

He followed Slade onto the helicopter and they took off, heading across the city. When they were stable, Slade reached over and cupped the side of Dick's neck, making the younger man lean into the touch. He looked over and saw his master had pulled back his mask, revealing his face, and was looking at him with pride.

"Good boy," Slade told him, and Dick  _melted,_ his eyelids fluttering. "So good for me, Dick."

"Thank you, Sir," Dick breathed, almost a moan. He wanted to be good. He wanted to serve well. He wanted to make Slade proud.

And Slade grinned, sharp and wolfish.

* * *

"Gorgeous," Slade purred, eye half-lidded as he stared up at Dick.

Dick moaned and moved faster, his hands braced on his master's shoulders for leverage as he pushed himself up and down on his cock. Slade's hands slid over his skin, catching on various scars, lingering over the ones he'd created. He leaned forward and bit Dick's shoulder, sucking a bruise into the skin around a scar Slade had given him in training once.

"Hng," Dick said, completely unintelligible, his head dipping forward with exhaustion.

Slade bucked his hips,  _hard,_ and Dick's head flew right back up with a startled gasp, meeting Slade's smirk with a moan.

"Don't get tired on me now, Dick," Slade tutted. "You can keep going, can't you?"

"Of course, Sir," Dick said immediately, because he wasn't weak, because his master wanted him to ride him and he'd always do as his master wanted. "Anything you want, Sir."

They'd been at this for a long time, ever since they'd arrived back at their safehouse after the meeting with Luthor and Savage. Slade had commanded him to strip as soon as the door had been locked, and then slammed him against the wall and kissed him breathless. From there things had progressed, and Dick had spent the last fifty minutes riding Slade's cock.

Every time he got close to the edge Slade would pull him right back, not give him permission to come, and Dick's entire body was thrumming with overstimulation and exhaustion. His legs were cramping, his vision was blurring with tears, his hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat. And beneath him was Slade, his master still completely clothed and looking perfectly put together.

"Good boy," Slade said in approval, and Dick mewled, renewing his efforts. He just wanted to be good. He just wanted to make his master feel good.

"So loyal," Slade murmured, his eye dragging hungrily up and down Dick's body, gaze lingering on the point where Dick was fucking himself on his cock. "You're very loyal, aren't you, Dick?"

"Yes," Dick panted. "Yes, Sir. Loyal toto you, Sir." He was so tired. He wanted to sleep, or simply lie down.

Slade hummed his approval. "Oh, I know. After all, you gave up your identity today. And Luthor's a clever man, it won't take him any time at all the connect the dots and figure out that Bruce Wayne is Batman." Dick's movements stuttered for barely a split second. "And with that identity, the rest are easy enough to deduce. So really, today you put them all in danger.

"I'm so proud of you," his master continued, and whatever uncomfortable feeling had sparked in Dick's gut  _(in danger?)_ vanished immediately like it had never been there, instead a warm glow radiating through his body. His master was proud of him. That was better than any high in the world.

"Thank you, Sir," Dick breathed, fingers clenching on Slade's large shoulders. "Thankthank you."

Slade chuckled and captured him in a kiss, licking into his mouth, biting at his lips. "So gorgeous. And all mine."

"Yours," Dick groaned in agreement. Slade gripped his hips firmly enough to bruise and thrust up as Dick pushed down, putting an enormous amount of pressure on his prostate for few moments. "AhMasterSir _please-"_

"You want something, pretty bird?"

_"Please."_

Another chuckle from his master. One hand traveled up his body, pinching his nipples cruelly along the wayand drawing a shout out of Dickbefore settling around Dick's throat and squeezing.

Dick gasped for air; he'd already been panting, struggling to catch his breath after a non-stop hour, and now it was absolutely impossible, Slade's hand too tight for him to get more than the tiniest threads of air.

"Who owns you, pretty bird?" Slade growled, slamming up into him. "Who do you belong to?"

Dick tried to get the words out, but he didn't have enough air, so he settled for mouthing  _You_ over and over again. Black spots danced across his vision, the edges darkening.

"That's right," Slade purred, and then he was pushing up from the chair and to the ground, Dick underneath him. Dick's back crashed against the hardwood floor but he barely felt it, too focused on the fact that he could breathe as Slade's hand lifted from his throat. He laid limp for a few moments, feeling lightheaded, and he barely noticed as Slade readjusted above him, pushing his legs up to put his knees over Slade's shoulders.

But he certainly noticed when Slade slammed into him.

Dick let out a strangled sound, his head tipping back. He stayed boneless, letting his master use his body as he wished. Slade grunted out praise _("so good for me, pretty bird")_ of all kinds _("such a wonderful little slut for your master")_ and Dick let it wash over him, basking in his master's attention and in the knowledge that he'd done a good job, he'd made his master proud.

When Slade finally wrapped a hand around Dick's cock and growled out, "Come for me," Dick screamed and did as he was told, blacking out.

When he came to, Slade was pulling out of him, the motion making a filthy wet noise, and cum dripped out after him. Dick winced; his body ached all over and he was exhausted. He wanted to sleep for a week. He could barely move.

Slade gave an amused huff and then hauled Dick up into his arms and stood, carrying him into the bedroom. Dick flopped down where he was placed, following his master around the room with half-lidded eyes. When Slade glanced over at him, Dick grinned lazily, and Slade snorted.

"So much changes in a decade," Slade muses, "and so much stays the same."

"Like what, Sir?" Dick asked, his voice slightly hoarse. His throat hurt; he was sure he had a hand-shaped bruise forming.

Slade hummed and strode forward towards the bed, looking like the predator he was, hunting his prey. He'd changed clothes, now only in a pair of sweatpants instead of his Deathstroke armor, but he still dwarfed Dick's naked body as he crawled on top of the younger man.

"You're bolder now," Slade told him, and licked a stripe up Dick's neck. It tingled unpleasantly, his entire body oversensitive and screaming. He didn't dare flinch away. "That comes with age, of course. But I enjoy this grown spirit of yours. It took almost twice as long to break you this time, little bird."

Dick shuddered at the reminder of the White Room. He hated that place; he never wanted to return. And as long as he stayed good, as long as he served his master and served well, he'd never have to be in the White Room again.

Besides, Batman and Co had found that base, after all. Who knew if Slade had a backup plan for Dick's conditioning without access to the place it all happened.

Slade inserted three fingers at once into Dick's ass, making him keen, fighting hard against the urge to push away from the painful touch. It was too much, _too much_ But Slade kept going, dragging the pads of his fingers against Dick's prostate. Dick let out a sob, his penis twitching. It hurt it hurt it hurt

"And you're  _bigger,_ of course," Slade told him. He sounded amused. Amused was good; it meant his master was happy. If his master was happy, so was Dick. "Muscles are more defined, so many more scars..." Slade ran his tongue over a scar on Dick's chest, one Two-Face had given him just after his fifteenth birthday. "Gorgeous. A piece of art."

"Thank you," he replied automatically, breathlessly.

"But this'll never change, will it, little bird?" Slade said lowly. "You might be older and larger but you look the exact same spread out underneath me as you did at thirteen years old. You respond the same way. All mine."

"Yours," Dick agreed in a strangled voice as Slade began to pump his fingers faster and faster. He was hard now, though it felt painful instead of pleasurable. But if his master wanted this, then his master would get it.

Slade kissed him, deep and slow and claiming. Dick moaned into his mouth, pliant and weak, and when Slade wrapped his free hand around his cock he came for the second time of the night, immediately slumping in relief.

His master chuckled and pressed a kiss to his temple, then climbed off of him, heading for the door.

"Get some rest, pretty bird," Slade told him as he flicked off the light. "Tomorrow, we kill the Bat."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooooo obviously this isn't the end. There's gonna be a fourth chapter. I _know_ I said three, but to be fair to myself, I am thoroughly unreliable.
> 
> Also I made a [twitter](https://twitter.com/writertilldeath?lang=en), which is absolutely NSFW and filled with me and others talking about bad things happening to Dick by Slade ;)
> 
> Hope you enjoyed, and see you next time!


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